


Fallout: Fallen Knight

by Moss (Mossboy50)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Bros to lovers, Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, a simple himbo and his lesbian best friend, canon compliant unless i think canon is stupid, there are horses in fallout and chris abalone can suck my ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossboy50/pseuds/Moss
Summary: Ten years ago, Christopher Farris emerged from Vault 101 into a harsh and unforgiving Wasteland. Six years ago, he was ejected from the Brotherhood of Steel and began wandering north, trying his best to leave the remnants of his old life behind. And now, just as he's made a place in the Commonwealth, the Brotherhood has come knocking at his door once more. Suddenly face to face with the people he thought he had left behind for good, the fate of the wasteland once again rests in the hands of the Fallen Knight.Find me on tumblr at @fallout-fallen-knight or on twitter at @jonathan_simps. Edited by @corsairesix on tumblr. Sleipnirs, if and when they appear, belong to @owligator on tumblr.RE - the warnings, there's nothing in this fic that's significantly more violent than standard Fallout fare, but I wanted to err on the side of caution, and Fallout is a series that's rated M anyway.
Relationships: Lone Wanderer/Paladin Danse, Male Lone Wanderer/Paladin Danse
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

Christopher Farris awoke on the morning of his thirtieth birthday to the sound of rain on a tin roof. The shack - if you could call it that - sat on top of the ruins of a building in the south side of a city that had once been called Boston - at least, that’s what the ghoul family he had bought directions off of said it was. The man who had owned the shack lay dead ten feet away, his body cold and stiff in the morning mist.

  
Christopher had never been a fan of birthdays. His tenth birthday hadn’t been anything special - just an old pip boy, a weird poem from his neighbor, a sweet roll that his childhood bully stole immediately, and a BB gun that Christopher put in the back of his room and let gather dust. He spent his twentieth birthday under the lash in the Pitt, preparing to fight for his life and his freedom. His twenty-fourth birthday was the last time he had ever been in the Citadel. The last time he had ever seen Sarah and Owyn.

And yet, when Christopher awoke, his Pip-Boy had worked for long enough to display the official birthday notification: a small animation of a Vault Boy wearing a party hat, and a short message that read “Vault-Tec wishes you a happy birthday!”. Christopher tapped the screen once with a dirty fingernail, trying to dislodge the animation, but nothing could make it leave.

  
Christopher sighed. The Pip-Boy had been on the fritz since Jersey, and any day now, it would give up the ghost and finally die. Or so Christopher hoped. If it finally died, he would have no problems with cutting or prying it off his wrist and selling the parts for scrap. In its current state, the map, flashlight, holotape reader, and VATS were all unusable. But it still functioned as a radio, and that was good enough reason for Christopher to keep it around.

Christopher rolled off the filthy mattress and climbed unsteadily to his feet. The shack he had slept in was hardly that, with only two walls to keep out the cold Commonwealth air. But considering the other places that Christopher had stayed in his trek north, this was a luxury. It had a mattress, a chair, and a small ammo can that Christopher had picked through. Compared to the state of things in the Commonwealth, it was practically Tenpenny Towers.

Christopher smiled at that. A joke. He hadn’t made a joke in such a long time, especially to another person. Most of the people he encountered in the last few years were either trying to scam him out of his caps, kill him, or somewhere inbetween. Most didn’t like jokes.

Christopher rubbed his eyes and began smoothing his clothes, which had gotten askew in the night. His large, strong hands moved almost robotically across his wide chest, pushing and pulling his clothes back into place. He then wrapped a leather belt around his waist. On it hung a pistol jury-rigged together from scavenged parts, and a switchblade that was a parting gift from someone he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Christopher squeezed his eyes shut. No. Don’t think about the Vault. Don’t think about the Capital Wasteland. Shut it out. Shut it all out. He carefully felt around for his bandana and tied it around his face. There. A bit of anonymity for the wasteland. Nobody knew he he was now. That’s the way that Christopher liked it.

Christopher opened his eyes, picked up his heavy pack and swung it onto his back. It rattled with the sound of a dozen different pieces of scrap all crammed together and banging against each other. Scavving wasn’t an easy living by any means, but it worked for him. He was strong enough to carry the scrap other scavvers couldn’t and pull himself up into areas where stairs and elevators didn’t reach. If he found a door he couldn’t open, he could just force the lock or, worse come to worst, break it down with a strong kick next to the knob.

On the back of the pack hung two more keepsakes from a lifetime ago: a Chinese assault rifle he had picked up off a Talon Company asshat in downton DC, and his childhood baseball bat. He hadn’t used either in years. The assault rifle was impractical to use for how much ammo cost and how rare it was, and the baseball bat was more of a relic than a weapon at this point. But he couldn’t bear to sell either of them. He was sentimental like that.

Christopher sighed. If the directions from that ghoul family were accurate, Diamond City wasn’t too far west from here. A day or two’s journey, tops. He adjusted his pack, put up the hood of his jacket and walked to the edge of the roof he was sleeping on, taking care to avoid the long-dead man lying on the rooftop. Christopher took in a deep breath and surveyed the ruins of Boston. This was going to go great.


	2. The Great Green Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally finding his way to Diamond City, Christopher meets an eccentric reporter who gives him a warm Commonwealth welcome.

Christopher crept through the darkness towards the great wall looming towards him. It was massive, even bigger than the Citadel, and the wall stretched further in either direction than Rivet City, or so it seemed. He approached the wall and looked up, shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand. It certainly was big and tall and, by what little light came from a nearby spotlight, somewhat green. But it didn’t seem like the “great green jewel of the Commonwealth” that the ghoul family near Jamaica Plain said it was. Not yet, at least.

  
He followed the wall to the left, following arrows painted on the wall, sidewalk, and the wooden barricades that had been set up until he came across a gigantic metal door illuminated by harsh flood lights, and a woman in a red coat arguing with the wall.

“You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan!” she yelled at the wall. “It’s raining really hard out here. I live here, for god’s sake, you can’t just lock me out!” There was a moment of silence, and Christopher took the opportunity to walk a bit closer, just to watch the show if nothing else. You encountered no shortage of crazies in the wasteland, and some of them were the best entertainment around. “Open. This. Door. Right now!” the woman demanded, but the wall would not relinquish. Christopher got a little closer - he wasn’t a particularly stealthy person by design, but the heavy rain masked his footsteps pretty well.

So well, that when the woman turned around in frustration, she almost jumped when she saw Christopher standing there. For a moment, the floodlights showed the panic that flitted across her face, but then a sly grin replaced it. “Hey, you,” she said in a hushed whisper, giving Christopher the come over here wave. “You wanna get into Diamond City?”

“Um,” Christopher stammered, slowly approaching the woman. “Sure.” _I really hope she’s not completely nuts_ , he thought to himself.

“Shh,” the woman said. “What’s that?” she asked, more loudly and leaning towards a metal box on the wall. “You’re a trader from Quincy? You have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a month?”

“No?” Christopher said slowly. “I’m a scavver, I just want-”

“Shh, play along,” the woman hissed. “Hear that, Danny?” she asked the box. “Are you gonna open up the gate and let us in, or are you gonna be the one telling Myrna why she can’t keep the shop supplied?”

To Christopher’s surprise, the metal box actually responded. “Geez, Piper, alright. No need to make it personal.” There was a buzz, and the giant metal door began to slowly lift open.

“Come on,” the woman said. “Better go before ol’ Danny catches onto the trick.” They ducked under the still-opening door and made their way inside the gate. “Finally,” the woman muttered. “It’s raining mole rats out there.” She paused and gave Christopher a look up and down. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” the woman said. “Piper Wright. Publick Occurrences.”

“Christopher Farris. Scavenging old shit.”

Piper smiled. “Nice to meetcha. Ever been to Diamond City?”

Christopher shook his head. “First time. I keep to the south, mostly near the old airport.”

Piper looked impressed as the climbed the stairs into the city. “The airport can be mighty vicious. Props to you for staying alive.”

Christopher shrugged. “If you know your way around, it’s pretty easy to stay out of trouble. Just avoid the raiders and the gunners and you’re fine.”

Piper nodded, clearly thinking. “You clearly know what you’re doing, but there has to be more to it than that. Would you care to do an interview for the paper?”

“Paper?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah, the newspaper. Publick Occurrences.” Piper asked.

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“Publick Occurrences?”

“Newspapers.”

“Really?”

“I don’t read much.”

“Still, you must have seen ‘em around, they’re everywhere! Think it was called the Boston Bugle back in the day?”

Christopher thought hard about that. He had seen the odd newspaper stand around the Capital Wasteland - at least, that’s what the metal boxes said they had, but more often than not they had caps, ammo, or empty milk bottles. He shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Well,” Piper said. “Even so, I’d like to interview you. Just see what your perspective on all this is.”

“All of what?”

Piper gestured around. “This. Diamond City. The Commonwealth. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Christopher blinked and recoiled in shock. “How’d you know that?” he asked in a urgent whisper.

Piper shrugged. “You’ve never been to Diamond City, you don’t know how dangerous the airport is, and you’ve got that fish-out-of-water look all over your face. You’re a vault dweller if I ever seen one.”

“Shhh,” Christopher said, looking around frantically. “Don’t talk so loud. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Yeah,” Piper said, and she looked up at the sky, shading her eyes from the rain with her hand and the bill of her press cap. “Why don’t you come and stay the night at my place? It’s a hell of a lot drier than out here, and then we can figure out all this interview business in the morning.”

“You sure?” asked Christopher. “I don’t wanna - what’s the word - impose?”

“No, I insist,” Piper said. “There’s only one place to stay in Diamond City, and the Bobrovs charge an insane amount of caps this time of night. Come on, it’s just down this way.” Without further argument, Piper led the way down Diamond City’s front stairs. Now that they were inside the great walls of the city, Christopher was surprised to see just how bright Diamond City actually was. Even in the gloom and the rain, bright, colorful lights illuminated the city’s central tower. Around it were all assortment of businesses, identified by curvy lights spelling out words that, in the rainy night, were a little hard to read. A protectron in a chef’s hat mechanically stirred a pot in a window underneath the central tower. In the distance, more giant flood lights cast light down on Diamond City’s marketplace. It all seemed vaguely familiar to Christopher, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Piper led them to a small chrome building just by the entrance. The sign outside read “Publick Occurrences” in shaky green letters. The front grate had been shut, so Piper walked around to a small red door on the side of the building. She slid a key into the door and it unlocked smoothly.

It was surprisingly spacious inside the small building. There were a few lockers against the wall, a news stand, and a coffee table with a couch next to it. On the far side of the room, behind a desk with a typewriter on it, was a temporary wall, with an opening next to it and a ladder leading up to a loft above it. When Christopher and Piper entered, a young girl stumbled out of the opening. She was wearing a homemade, patched together dress made out of a half dozen different fabrics.

“What’s going on?” she asked, rubbing her eyes blearily.

“Don’t worry, Nat,” Piper said. She took off her reporter hat and red coat, hung them on the coat rack next to the door, and knelt next to the girl. “There was an issue at the gate. Danny wouldn’t let me in, something about the mayor. How’s the new paper selling?”

“Like hotcakes.” Nat yawned and pointed at Christopher. “Who’s that?” Christopher, who was busy putting down his pack and laying out his outermost layers to dry off, froze.

“That’s Christopher,” Piper said. “He’ll be staying the night, and then he’ll help me with an interview in the morning.”

Nat walked over to Christopher and stared up at him. “How’d you get so big?” she asked.

Piper tried to protest. “Nat! He’s a guest!”

But Christopher just shrugged. “19 years in a vault. 11 years in the wasteland. Take your pick.”

Nat gave Christopher another once-over. “I woulda guessed you were a super mutant,” she said.

“I was friends with a super mutant once,” Christopher said.

“Really?” Nat asked. “What was he like?”

“Smartest super mutant I’ve ever known,” Christopher said.

Nat’s eyes widened. “You’re lying!” she said accusingly, but she didn’t seem like she wanted that to be true.

“I swear it’s true,” Christopher said. “He was smart and hell with a gatling laser to boot.”

“That can’t be true,” Piper said.

“What happened to him?” asked Nat, still starry-eyed.

The question hit Christopher like a mini nuke. “I, uh,” Christopher said quietly, “I moved on. And he stayed behind.”

‘Well, it’s getting late,” Piper said quickly, “And you should really be off to bed, Nat. We can talk in the morning.”

“Okay,” Nat said, wandering back behind the scrim. “Night, Piper. Night, Christopher.”

When Nat had settled back into her bed and was quiet, Piper turned to Christopher. “Sorry about that,” Piper said. “She can be a handful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Christopher said. “I was just like her at her age.” He paused, trying to figure out how to word the question. “Is she yours?”

Piper recoiled and wrinkled her nose. “My sister, yeah.”

“Oh,” Christopher said, his face turning red. He clenched his fists and cursed himself internally.

“So,” Piper said slowly, trying to cut through the awkwardness. “Where would you like to stay?”

“The couch is fine,” Christopher said, and went to lay down.

“Wait!” Piper said. Christopher stopped and turned around. “Aren’t you going to change out of ... that?” She gestured at his rags, which were filthy and sopping wet.

“Into what?” Christopher asked. “I can wring them out, if you don’t want the couch to get wet...”

“You don’t have anything else to wear?” Piper asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If I had anything else, would I be wearing this?”

“Still, you shouldn’t sleep all wet like that, you’ll get sick!”

“Would I?” Christopher asked, feeling his clothes. It wouldn’t feel that good, he conceded to himself. "Still, I’m a guest, I don’t want to-"

But Piper was already clearing coats and hats off of the coat rack next to the door. “Here,” she said, tossing her own wet coat over the back of the chair at her desk. “Put your stuff here. In the morning I’ll help you find something else at Fallon’s Basement. My treat.”

Christopher didn’t quite understand who Fallon was, or why they would give him clothes, but he complied anyway, slowly undressing to underwear and a t-shirt that was only slightly damp. In the short time he knew Piper, he had figured that it was best to let her keep going once she got started. Having to stop her for questions only tripped her up.

Once he had disrobed and hung all his clothes up on the coat rack, Christopher laid down on the lumpy couch and made himself as comfortable as he could. From up in the loft, Piper held up a rolled up, patchwork blanket. “Is this good?” she asked.

“Sure,” Christopher said, and a moment later the roll sailed between his hands and hit him smack in the face.

“Sorry,” Piper said, barely stifling a laugh. “Night, Blue,” she said, and turned out the lights, leaving Christopher alone in the darkness with the sound of rain pattering on the roof.

***

The next morning, after a quick and confusing breakfast at Power Noodles, Piper and Christopher made their way downstairs to Fallon’s Basement, which was, as Christopher learned, a shop, and not the basement of someone named Fallon.

The shop was dimly lit by a few strings of lights, and was empty except for three or four mannequins wearing different outfits, both men and women’s. There was a woman standing behind a cash register, her gray hair in a prim bun. She eyed Christopher’s clothes and bandana suspiciously as he and Piper entered.

“Is this your first time here?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Christopher said. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” the woman said, “because Fallon’s is a shop, not a charity. If you want it, you pay for it.”

“That’s the usual deal, isn’t it?” Christopher asked.

“You should tell that to some of my other customers,” the woman said, smiling. “I guess I misjudged you. The name’s Becky, and this is my shop. I’m happy to show you anything you’d like to see.”

“He’s with me, Becky,” Piper called across the room. “Just put it on my tab.”

Becky’s smile faded. “Hello, Piper,” she said coldly. “You gonna pay that tab sometime?”

“I’m workin’ on it,” Piper said. “This issue is sellin’ like crazy, and the next one’ll be even better.”

“Mhm,” Becky said. “I see the fine people of Diamond City are always hungry for more rabble-rousing about the Institute.”

“Don’t listen to her, Blue,” Piper said to Christopher. “The Institute is real, and a menace.”

“The Institute?” Christopher asked. The word rattled around in his mind. Something about it seemed so familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Look,” Becky said, “Are you buying or not?”

“Um,” Christopher said, swallowing hard. He looked around and pointed to an outfit on a nearby mannequin. “That one, please,” he said.  
Becky looked at the mannequin and nodded. “That’ll be fifty caps.”

“Jesus, Blue,” Piper said, “You’re really cleaning me out.”

“Sorry,” Christopher muttered, his face turning red. “My caps bag is back in your place, I’ll-”

“No, Blue. I insist. If you hadn’t come along I’d be sleeping outside the front gate. It’s the least I can do.”

Becky raised an eyebrow. “Danny Sullivan lock you out again, Piper?”

“You have a good one, Becky,” Piper said, tipping her reporter’s cap at the shopkeep.

Back aboveground, Piper handed the folded up clothes to Christopher. “Here, Blue,” she said, “You can hold onto these, if you want. Or run back to my place, if you wanna change out of ... those.” She looked dismissively at his rags, still damp and clinging to his body uncomfortably.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Huh?”

“Blue. That’s not my name.”

“Well, yeah,” Piper said, “But ‘Christopher’ is kind of a mouthful, and you’re a vault dweller, so ... Blue.” Christopher’s eyes betrayed no sign of recognition or understanding. “You know, like the vault suit. Blue. They’re still blue wherever you’re from, right?”

“Yeah, they...” Christopher trailed off mid thought as something caught the corner of his eye. It was one of the market stalls, at the leftmost end of the row that curved around the market. There was an older man standing there, in crisp white clothing with a baseball cap. He had a baseball bat in his hands, and was making an enthusiastic sales pitch to a couple who looked like they’d rather be elsewhere. “Wait a second,” Christopher muttered, and began turning in his spot, taking in everything that surrounded him.

“Uh, Blue?” Piper asked. “You okay?”

“I’m great!” Christopher said, still spinning. He stopped in front of Piper, a nearly manic grin on his face. “This was a baseball stadium!”

Piper smiled back, a little uneasily. “Uh, yeah,” she said, “it was.”

“You know about baseball?” Christopher asked.

“I mean, not really,” Piper said, “but if you’re interested, you should talk to Moe Cronin. He knows everything there is to know about baseball,” and pointed at the the man with the baseball bat who now shouting something at the couple, now leaving rapidly from his vendor’s stall.

“You have no appreciation for the sport!” Moe yelled at the couple as they hurried away. “Our ancestors loved baseball, you’d make them sick!”

“Moe Cronin?” Christopher asked as he approached.

“Yeah?” Moe said, looking Christopher over. “Lookin’ to buy a swatter?”

“A - what?”

“A swatter,” Moe said. “Surely you’ve heard of a swatter.”

The cogs in Christopher’s mind turned slowly, picking through the vault’s book on the sport for any mention of a swatter. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he said at last.

Moe laughed. “A rookie, eh? A swatter is a Diamond City tradition. See, this place used to be what’s called a base-ball sta-di-um.” He spoke slowly, sounding the words out for Christopher. “And two teams would gather for a sport called baseball.”

“I know that,” Christopher protested, but Moe had already begun his spiel, and there was no stopping him now.

“The two teams,” Moe continued, “would fight each other to the death with these things called baseball bats.” He held out the bat in his hand, turning it over slowly for Christopher to see. It was old and a little splintery, but it was still nicer than any of the 200-year-old bats in the vault. “The best bats - the ones that went multiple games without breaking - were called Swatters. They sold ‘em after the game sometimes. Little history fact for ya.”

Christopher sighed. “Look, dumbass,” he said, trying not to let his anger at this geezer’s sheer stupidity bubble over, “that’s not how baseball was played.”

“Whoa, Blue,” Piper said, “let’s not say anything we’re gonna regret-”

Moe’s eyes narrowed. “Oooh, look at Mister Smarty-Pants over here! If you’re such a baseball expert, how do you think it was played?”

Christopher took a deep breath. “There were two teams, you got that bit right. One was at bat, the other was out there-” he jerked his head towards the far wall of Diamond City “- in the outfield. The pitcher threw the ball at the batter, who hit it with a swatter towards the outfield. If the batter misses the ball, that’s a strike. If the ball misses the batter, that’s a ball. Three strikes is an out, three strikes means the teams switch positions. Two switches is an inning, the game is nine innings long. Four balls means the batter walks to first base. If they hit the ball, they run as far as they can around the bases. If they hit it out of the park it’s a home run, that means they go all the way around. If someone does go all the way around, that’s one point. Whoever has more points at the end of the ninth inning wins. And nobody died.”

Piper raised an eyebrow. “You ... sure know a lot about baseball, Blue.”

“The vault used to have a book on it and some equipment,” Christopher said. “It was the only thing to do a lot of the time.”

“Sounds boring,” Moe muttered. “I like my version better. Are you gonna buy a swatter or not?”

“Nah, I got one at home,” Christopher said. He turned out to go, but Moe called out to him.

“Wait!” Moe said. “Look, you seem like you know a lot about baseball. Er, or whatever you think baseball is. And you’re a - a big guy, look like you know your way around.”

“You got a point to this?” Christopher asked.

“Yes,” Moe said. “I’ve got a job for you. It’s dangerous, I won’t deny. But the caps are good.”

“What is it?”

“There’s an estate, just southwest of here. It belonged to a pre-war baseball coach named Quitting-Is-For-Punks Westing. According to legend, when he retired, the other coaches gave him three artifacts. A card, a glove, and a ball, all signed by the other coaches. Even one of these would be worth a lotta caps in the right hands, but all three?”

“That’d be worth a jingly bag of caps, I get it,” Christopher said. “What’s your rate?”

“100 caps per artifact,” Moe said.

“And 100 more for all three,” Christopher countered.

Moe thought about it, then sighed. “Deal,” he said.

Christopher turned to Piper. “Whatta ya say, Pipes?” he asked. “Ready for some investigative journalism?”

Piper grinned. “Like I say,” she said. “You can’t consider yourself a reporter until you’ve been shot at.”


	3. Grand Slam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Moe’s behest, Christopher and Piper travel west to find the three pre-war baseball artifacts. Piper does some investigative journalism. Christopher takes an unconventional approach to seafood.

“Well,” Piper said. “It’s certainly wetter than I would have thought.”

They stood at the gate to the Westing Estate. It was a sprawling piece of land even by wasteland standards. Christopher could count at least three buildings, with a huge yard behind it, on which a few shacks had been built. Unfortunately, most of the estate was underwater, and the buildings that still remained were as run down as anything else in the wasteland. In the middle of the lake was the ruins of what had once been a large manor house, Christopher guessed. Maybe it belonged to that tribal baseball coach. In any case, anything above the ground floor was nearly entirely gone.

“Alright, Blue,” Piper said, pad of paper and pencil in hand. “Run me through the process. You’re scavving, or treasure hunting, or whatever you wanna call it. What’s your first move?”

Christopher surveyed the flooded estate. “Well, you want to hit the big buildings first,” he said. “That’s where the good stuff is. Of course, that’s where the raiders hide out sometimes. Or ghouls. You know, feral ones. Normal ones are fine, unless they’re mercs, or assholes. And sometimes the buildings have just been booby-trapped to hell by some asshole with nothing better to do.”

Piper paused. “So, what should I write down?”

“Uh, maybe, ‘go in bigger buildings but be careful’? How’s that sound?” Piper nodded and began writing. “So, the first one we’re gonna go in is that one over there,” Christopher continued, pointing to a large shed off to the left.

“Why that one?” asked Piper. “The biggest building is straight ahead.”

Christopher shrugged. “Gotta start somewhere. I’d prefer one that isn’t in the middle of a lake.”

The shed was open on both ends, and listing at an angle that made it look as if it were about to fall into the lake. There wasn’t a lot inside: a workbench along the right wall, a big window and a cabinet on the left. On the other side of the shed was a toolbox sitting on a handcart.

“In a place like this,” Christopher said, “you want to check containers first. Cabinets, toolboxes, stuff like that. Especially if they’re locked. That means that a long time ago, someone didn’t want you to get in there.”

Piper nodded and wrote it down. “So, do you see anything of value in here?”

Christopher crossed the room, looking around. “Not much,” he said. “Tools are never worth the weight. Ammo tends to be pretty light and valuable, if you can find a buyer. Rare ammo is worth more, but you’re also less likely to find someone willing to buy ammo for a gun they don’t have. Old world money is surprisingly useful. Makes good bedding, apparently - an old friend told me that people like to stuff their mattresses with the stuff. I don’t get it it, but, you know...” Christopher shrugged. “Whatever floats their boat.” He knelt next to the cart and opened the toolbox. “Aha!” he shouted.

“Find something good?” Piper asked.

Christopher turned and held up a thick brown glove, covered in black squiggles. “The mitt!” he said triumphantly. “One down, two to go.”

“Well done, Blue,” Piper said. “Where to next?”

“As much as I hate to say it,” Christopher said, looking through the shattered window towards the manor house, “I think we have to go into the house.”

“Ugh, you sure?”

“Sure as shit,” Christopher said, fishing a bottle of radaway from his pack and a pill into his mouth before offering it to Piper. “Hope these boots are waterproof.”

The water on the first floor of the house was up to Christopher’s waist, and midway up Piper’s stomach. There wasn’t much there, except for a staircase near the door up to the second floor that Christopher and Piper quickly climbed on top of to get out of the water. The second story had little more: a red armchair, a shattered glass display case, and a rusty safe. Most of the floor had caved in long ago, and large parts of the walls had too. It was more like a rooftop than a second floor at this point.

“So, the safe?” Piper asked as she sat down on the armchair. She took off one boot, shaking it as the muddy water poured out.

“Yep,” Christopher said, and knelt in front of the safe. He tried the handle hopefully, but it didn’t budge. He sighed. Locks were never his strong suit. The finesse required to pick locks was too delicate for him, and he broke half the bobby pins he used. He took a pin and a screwdriver out of one of his new jacket’s many pockets, inserted them into the lock, and began rotating them.

“So, Blue,” Piper said, still wringing out her clothing on the armchair. “How does one get into the scavenging business?”

“It’s not hard,” Christopher said. “You go out, you pick something up, you go back, you sell it.”

“Well, sure,” Piper said. “But how did you get into it?”

The question stopped Christopher in his tracks. “I, uh,” he stammered, “you just get into it, I suppose.”

“Aw, come on, Blue,” Piper said. “Come on. Tell me the story. Little Christopher steps into the world, and he goes out and starts poking around old ruins? What’s the story?”

“There’s no story!” Christopher snapped, and the bobby pin broke in his hands.

One moment passed, then another. “Everything alright, Blue?” Piper asked softly.

“Broke the damn bobby pin,” Christopher said, and fumbled around for another one. “You want to know why I got into scavving? Fine. But off the record.”

“I ... sure, Blue. Off the record.”

Christopher sighed and began working on the lock again. “I grew up in a vault, yeah. Not round here. Down south, in a place called the Capital Wasteland. It was a pretty nice life, I guess. Then, my dad left the vault. I went chasing after him, followed him across the wasteland. Turns out he was part of a secret project to figure out how to clean water. Like, on a huge scale. The first time we turned it on, it cleaned a whole river in minutes. But then this group, the Enclave, came in, took over the project, and killed my dad.” Christopher stopped, and pretended to adjust the screwdriver in the lock while dabbing his eyes with his bandana. He hoped that facing away from Piper would hide it well enough. He doubted it did.

“I tried to go back to my Vault, but they wouldn’t let me back in. Said I was too much of a liability. So I joined up with this group called the Brotherhood of Steel. Real ‘knights in shining armor’ kinda stuff. We fought back the Enclave, kicked the shit out of them, got back our purifier. I killed the son of a bitch who killed my dad myself. But then,” Christopher paused. “The Brotherhood exiled me.”

“For what?” Piper asked.

“That’s another story,” Christopher said quickly. “But after all that, I didn’t really have any other place to go. So I started scavving, just to make enough caps to survive. The days, months, years started blurring together. I don’t remember a lot. I drank most of the time. Eventually, it all got to be too much. Too many reminders. So I started ... wandering, I guess. Heading north. Found my way here, eventually.” The lock clicked softly, and the safe door opened slowly on rough, rusty hinges. “Look,” Christopher said, trying to lighten the mood. “The baseball.”

Piper didn’t move. She was sitting up in the armchair, mouth agape. Her pad of paper and pencil sat next to her on the chair’s arm, forgotten. “Jesus Christ, Blue,” she said. “That’s,” she sat back in her chair and blew a long breath out. “How do you keep going?”

“You can only take it one day at a time. Just keep going. That's all anyone can do.”

“That’s ... mighty inspiring, Blue,” Piper said. “I know I said off the record, but can I quote that? I know a lot of folks in the wasteland could hear that.”

“Sure,” Christopher said, and rose from his spot in front of the safe. “Come on, let’s get find this damn baseball card and get paid.”

The pair made their way down a rickety ramp off the back of the house towards the collection of shacks in the lake in the backyard. Dotting the lake was old playground equipment; in one place, the path split off to a plastic replica of an alien UFO that Christopher gave as wide a berth as possible, in another, a watch tower had been built atop a dome made of metal bars. The wood creaked unsteadily as Christopher and Piper made their way to the watch tower, but it held.

The watch tower was empty except for a mattress, an ammo can, a lantern, and a blue plastic box. Christopher walked over to it and nudged the box’s lid with his foot. It fell open, and the signed baseball card stared up at him. “Well, there you go,” Piper said with a laugh. She reached down and picked the card out of the box, offering it to Christopher.  
Christopher didn’t take it. He looked around the shack, then crouched down on the ground. At his feet was a comic book - the Unstoppables. “Hey Piper,” he said. “These old comic books - they go for fair amount of caps, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Piper said. “You can pick it up if you want. Didn’t take you for much of a comic book reader.”

“I’m not,” Christopher said, “but I know my baseball, and I know that if this stuff were as valuable as Moe Shithead says it is, someone woulda come and got it already.”

“What are you saying, Blue?”

Christopher turned to Piper, hand on his gun. “Why hasn’t somebody come and gotten it already?” There was a roar directly below the watch tower, then the unmistakable sound of dozens skittering legs and clicking claws. “Mirelurks!” Christopher shouted.

They both turned and began sprinting down the walkway back towards the house. On both sides, mirelurks exploded out of the lake, smashing against the rickety supports of the walkway.

Christopher pulled out his gun and fired off a few shots, but they didn’t seem to have any effect on the creatures. One lunged for Christopher’s ankles and missed, smashing against the side of the walkway. The walkway buckled, and Christopher stumbled with it. He lost his grip on his pipe pistol and it fell out of his hands, bounced off the walkway, and into the murky water. Christopher cursed, but kept running. It was no good to him now anyway.

Things were no better in the house. Just as Christopher and Piper reached the house, the last of the walkway collapsed into the lake. They were trapped. Below them, the mirelurks swarmed the first floor, pushing and shoving over each other in the water. A few tried to climb the steep staircase to the second floor, but their legs were too short and the furthest they made it was a few steps up before they toppled back into the water. For now, they were safe.

Piper drew her gun and fired off a few experimental shots at the writhing mirelurks below. “It’s no good,” she muttered. “Shells’re too damn thick.”

“I tried that already, on the walkway,” Christopher said, jerking with his head. “Won’t work.”

Piper nodded, only half paying attention, then looked back at Christopher - first his face, then his empty hands. “Blue, where is your gun?”

“I, uhh,” Christopher gestured towards the lake.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“Well, does that thing have any ammo?” Piper asked, pointing to the assault rifle on Christopher’s back.

Christopher shook his head. “Haven’t been able to find any. It’s not common, and when you can find it it’s pretty expensive.”

“Oh, great,” Piper said. “What about the baseball bat?” she asked. “You said you used to play baseball in your vault, can’t you use that thing?”

“I guess,” Christopher said. He dropped his pack and picked up the bat, giving it a few test swings. “It’s been a while since I’ve used a bat.”

“Well,” Piper said. “You better get ready.”

The building creaked and groaned. There was again the sound of many legs skittering on wood - but unlike before, where they had only lasted a few seconds before the splash that followed, this time, the skittering didn’t go away. It continued, coming closer and closer until the mirelurk rounded the corner of the stairway and came into view.  
It was big, even bigger than normal mirelurks. Its shell was thick and encrusted with barnacles, and it had become entangled in a fishing net that now wrapped around itself, providing even more protection. It was missing a claw, but the one it did have was massive and wickedly serrated.

When it reached the top of the stairs, it paused and clicked its claw a few times, as if challenging Christopher. He steadied himself in response, tightening his grip on the bat. He could do this. Piper raised her pistol, but he put up a hand to block her. “Don’t,” he said. “I got this.”

The mirelurk clicked its claw once more before it began making its way towards Christopher - slowly at first, then faster and faster. Christopher took one step towards the creature, then another, and another. He raised the bat to his shoulder, then brought it back in a mighty swing towards the mirelurk.

***

“Here you go,” Christopher said, dropping the ball and glove on Moe’s counter. Piper did the same with the baseball card.

The old man turned around in surprise. It was nearly dusk, the neon lights of Diamond City were just coming on, and he was busying himself by closing up shop for the night. He walked over to the counter and inspected the three artifacts. “Well done,” he said, “very well done.” He leaned in closer and poked one. “They’re wet.”

“Yeah, well, the estate’s flooded, Moe,” Christopher said. “And infested with mirelurks. We’re lucky we got out alive. “

Moe shrugged. “As long as you got the artifacts, that’s all that matters. You’ve done a great thing for the sport of baseball, Christopher. These three are very valuable, and very important to the sport. The glove, for example-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Christopher said. “I know how to play baseball, Moe. And it’s called a mitt. What about the caps?”

“As promised,” Moe said, and handed over a large brown bag. Piper let out a low whistle. “100 per artifact, and 100 for all three.” The bag jingled as Christopher took it, and he sighed dreamily.

“Music to my ears,” he said. “You take care of yourself, Moe,” he added, and turned away from the storefront.

“You know, Blue,” Piper said, “I wouldn’ta blamed you if you had just taken the artifacts and skipped town. I don’t think ol’ Moe quite knows what he’s got there.”

“Nah,” Christopher said. “He hired me to do a job, and I’ll do it. That’s just what’s right. Speaking of which,” he said, and he began to open the caps bag.

“No, no,” Piper said. “I can’t take that.”

“Well, not all of it,” Christopher said, “But think of it as a - what’s it called - payment, for my next few copies of the paper. You’ve earned it.”

“Blue, I-”

“Piper. 100 caps. Take it or leave it.”

Piper looked at Christopher, then back at the bag. “Oh, alright,” she said. “But you have to let me pay for Takahashi’s noodles next time.”

“Deal,” Christopher said, “But I really don’t want noodles again already. How’s the food at the Dugout Inn?”

“Edible,” Piper said, “but enough of their homemade moonshine and you can’t tell the difference.”

***

A few hours later, Christopher and Piper were sitting at a table in the Dugout Inn, each half a bottle of moonshine into the night. Across from them was a man with thick, curly hair in road leathers, leaning back with a drink in his hand and an arm over his chair. It was getting late, and the bar had mostly emptied except for a broad-faced man who stood behind the bar, wiping an empty glass with a dirty rag.

“There we were,” Christopher said, his words slurred by the drink, “our only way out collapsed behind us, surrounded by water in every direction. I’ve dropped my gun, and Piper’s got this - dinky little pistol.”

“Oh, like your rifle was doing us any better,” Piper protested.

“Sure, sure,” Christopher said. “But just then - when we think we’re safe, for now - what comes crawling up the stairs but ... a mirelurk!”

“A mirelurk?” the man in road leathers asked. “That’s, like, a one on the danger scale. Come back to me when you’ve fought a deathclaw.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about deathclaws, do you, Hawthorne?” Christopher asked. He stood up, but the broad-faced man cut him off, pointing with the dirty rag.

“No fighting in my bar,” he said simply.

“Alright, Vadim, I’m sorry,” Christopher said, and heavily sat back down in his chair. “But if you wanna talk deathclaws,” he continued, but was cut off by another figure approaching the table.

“You say you’ve fought a deathclaw?” He was tall, and dressed like a mercenary - high end, like Talon or the Gunners, not somebody you’d typically see wandering around an inn late at night. But the most striking thing about him was that he was a ghoul.

“Sure,” Christopher said, shrugging. “Once or twice.”

“I thought ghouls weren’t allowed in Diamond City,” Piper said.

The ghoul nodded. “They’re not, but I worked out a deal with the mayor’s brother. He figured out a way in, and lets me use it in exchange for - well, I don’t need to get into that now.” He turned back to Christopher. “The name’s Edward Deegan. I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested.”

“What are the details?”

“Can’t tell you, not here,” Edward said. “But if you’re interested, head north. To Cabot House. Jack will want to speak with you.”


	4. Tales from the Commonwealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher talks about aliens, settles family disputes, buys a house, and more.

“Well, Edward,” Christopher said as he stepped into the Cabot House foyer, “I made it, despite your directions.”

“Sorry about that,” Edward said. “But I don’t want to give out the address to just anybody. Besides, I wasn’t too worried. You’ve got a pip boy.”

“Thing’s been busted for three years. Only functions as a radio nowadays. And what about those robots outside? Where’d you get an Sentry Bot, anyway?”

“Oh, those? Don’t worry, they’re just insurance.”

“In- what?”

“Never mind. Come in, sit down.”

Christopher closed the door behind him and hung his jacket on a nearby coat rack. Cabot House was by far the cleanest house he had ever seen, besides maybe Tranquility Lane, but that didn’t really count. The carpet was immaculate, the wallpaper not faded and actually sticking to the walls, and not a sign of wear anywhere.

“How do you keep it so clean?” Christopher asked as Edward led him into the living room. It was as cozy and clean as the foyer - a green table covered in shiny colored balls, a few couches, and a staircase leading up to a landing.

“Mister Handys,” Edward said curtly. “Wait here. I’ll get Jack.”

“No need!” called a voice from the upper landing. Christopher and Edward both turned to see a man in a lab coat descending the stairs. “You must be the mercenary Edward told me about.”

“Am I?” Christopher asked, turning to Edward.

Edward nodded. “Jack, this is Christopher. Christopher, this is Jack Cabot.”

Christopher stood and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you too, Christopher,” Jack said. “Edward finds it tiresome, but I make it a point to meet everyone who works for me. I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“What, like a test?” Christopher asked. “I didn’t do too good on the last test I took.”

“No, not a test,” Jack said. “Think of it like ... a job interview. Just one question. Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?”

Christopher furrowed his brow. “What, like little green men in UFOs flying around?”

Jack sighed. “Nothing quite so theatrical, no. I don’t expect-”

“Sure I do. I’ve been on one of their spaceships. Buncha assholes.”

Edward, who had been pouring some drinks in the corner, froze, turning slowly to stare in bewilderment at Christopher. Jack stared as well, a grin slowly seeping across his face.

“You have?” Jack asked. “Tell me everything!”

“Well,” Christopher started. “I was poking around some old ruins - as you do - with my buddy Fawkes, and I guess I touched some stuff I shouldn’t have. Next thing you know, I’m on a spaceship, in some kind of alien holding cell. I ended up breaking out, and it was me, a trader, a little girl, a cowboy, one of the soldiers from Alaska, and - what’s the word? Some kinda pre-war sam-your-eye?”

Jack drank in every word. “Fascinating!” he said ecstatically, scribbling down notes on a pad of paper. “Now, you said they were little green men, correct?”

“Sure,” Christopher said. “With big heads, and eyes like a bloodbug.”

“Incredible!” Jack said. “Now, what-”

“Jack?” Edward asked, bringing two whisky glasses over. “The job?”

“Oh, right,” Jack said, accepting one of the glasses. “You’ll have to excuse me. The study of extraterrestrials is something I’ve dedicated my life to. Perhaps I can pick your brain another time?”

“Sure,” Christopher said. “Another time.” He accepted the other glass from Edward and took a long drink. He was surprised by the taste - it was smooth, and, most strangely, clean. It reminded him of the time he and Amata broke into her dad’s liquor cabinet when they were 15.

Jack smiled. “Good, huh? Vintage. 1815.”

Christopher nodded and pretended to know what that meant. “I ... yes. You can taste the, uh, numbers.”

Jack’s smile faltered. “I see,” he said, and set down the whiskey tumbler. “Edward, could you explain the job to Christopher? As much as I enjoy the company, he’s not here to discuss extraterrestrials and drink whiskey.” Jack stood, politely said goodbye, and left the room.

“Right,” Edward said. “See, Jack owns a facility north of here, way out of the city.” He paused. “I’ll be honest, it’s an insane asylum. Parsons. Ever heard of it?”

Christopher shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

Edward nodded. “I’ll give you a map. Anyway, between here and there, one of our couriers was ambushed. Your job is to find the people who did it, put a bullet between their eyes, and bring us the package.”

Christopher considered this. “I don’t think my aim’s that good,” he said.

Edward sighed. “I - look, just go to Parson’s and find the guard captain, okay? Her name’s Maria. She’ll have more information for you.” Christopher nodded and stood up, but Edward held up a hand. “This is very important to Jack,” he said. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you. Don’t screw this up.”

***

Christopher sidled up next to a bar under a messy hand-painted sign that read “Savoldi’s Place”. He looked around for a bartender, but the only people who looked like they worked there were two men, both of whom were currently in an argument with each other.

“I’m tellin’ you, Dad,” the younger one said, “The Railroad is doin’ real good in the Commonwealth!”

“And I’m tellin’ you, Tony,” the older one spit back, “That no son of mine is chasin’ a fairy tale to join a bunch of loonies who want to give robots rights!”

“They’re not robots, Dad. They’re synths, and they’re people, like us! Anyone here could be a synth and you would never know!”

“Exactly my point, Tony. Do you want the Institute to come down on us?” The older man lowered his voice and looked around suspiciously, spotting Christopher at the end of the bar.

Tony noticed him too. “Hey, you,” he called. “What do you think?”

“Can I please get a Nuka-Cola?” Christopher asked.

The older man sighed. “Don’t get strangers mixed up in this, Tony.”

“No, I’m serious!” Tony said. “What do you think about the Railroad?”

Christopher thought about it. The Railroad. The name sounded so familiar, but he just couldn’t quite place it. Eventually, he just shrugged. “If they’re doing good, then I think that they’re perfectly fine.”

The older man harrumphed. “Whatever. You said you wanted a Nuka-Cola?”

***

“Oh, Blue,” Piper said as they walked back from Mayor McDonough’s office through the Diamond City Market, “I’m so glad you’re finally getting yourself your own little place!”

“It’s been a long while since I’ve owned my own place,” Christopher said. “Still, 2000 caps? That’s real expensive. I liked the rent at my old place better.”

“You were sleeping on my couch, Blue.”

“And the rent was cheap. You know, back in Megaton, they gave me a house for free. And it came with one of those Mister Handys.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sure! It was a reward for disarming the nuke in the middle of town.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Piper said. “I have several questions. First of all, you disarmed a nuclear bomb?”

“Not ... quite, no. Technically, I was given it for not rearming the bomb. But I did beat the shit out of the guy who tried to pay me to set if off instead. Saved the Sheriff, too. That’s what they gave me the house for.”

“Well, that I can believe.”

“And the other question?”

“Who in their right mind builds a town around an unexploded nuke? I know people who wouldn’t go within 200 steps of a mini-nuke, and you all were fine living next to a real one?”

Christopher shrugged. “The Capital Wasteland is ... different. It got hit a lot harder than the Commonwealth was, I guess. You kinda took what you could get.”

They arrived at the front door of the house that McDonough’s secretary had called “Home Plate” - which, to Christopher’s annoyance, was located somewhere between the pitcher’s mound and first base. He put the key in the lock and opened the front door.

Christopher’s jaw dropped as soon as they entered the house. What he had initially taken for a small, one-room apartment was far taller and far wider than he had expected. He could see at least two floors above him, and the ground floor stretched off to his left at least twenty feet before curving around a corner.

“Well,” Piper said, “That explains the cost.”

“I don’t - I can’t - Piper, I don’t own this much furniture!”

“Well, you’re a scavver, right?” Piper asked. “Maybe you could make some?”

“I’m a scavver, Pipes, not a ... what’s the word? Carpenter?”

“Well, sure, but ... swinging a bat, swinging a hammer? Those can’t be that different, can they?” In response, Christopher sat against the wall and groaned loudly, his head in his hands. Piper sat down next to him. “Come on, Christopher,” she said. “It’s not so bad. Saving up to buy this place took, what, a few weeks? We’ll get you some furniture.”

When Christopher took his head out of his hands, Piper was surprised to see that he was laughing. “Look at me,” he said. “Complaining about furniture. Oh, if my old man could see me now.”

Piper smiled. “Come on, Blue. Let’s get some power noodles.”

***

Christopher crept through the vault as quietly as he could, which wasn’t easy. He was a big and not-particularly-stealthy guy to begin with, and his pack was full of loot from the vault and guns and ammo he had taken off of the Triggermen he’d found so far. With every step he took, it shifted and bounced like the can chimes outside Crazy Myrna’s shop.

Across the atrium and up one level, another one of the Triggermen was talking to someone that Christopher couldn’t see. “How you doin’ in there, Valentine?” the man asked. “Feelin’ hungry? Wanna snack?”

A muffled, croaky voice replied, “Keep talkin’, meathead. It’s gonna give Skinny more time to think about how he’s gonna bump you off.”

That must be Valentine, Christopher thought to himself as he climbed the stairs to reach the Triggerman and the detective he had been hired to rescue. He positioned himself next to the door, just as he heard the Triggerman say, “...I gotta smooth this over! Fast!”

There was the sound of footsteps quickly approaching the door, and Christopher raised his bat to his shoulder. As soon as the Triggerman crossed through the doorway, Christopher drove the bat into his stomach, slamming him into the wall behind him. The Triggerman slumped against the wall, leaving a trail of blood as his legs collapsed and his head fell forward.

Christopher ran to where the Triggerman had been standing. There was a large window into the Overseer’s office, where a man in a long trenchcoat stood, cloaked in shadow and staring at Christopher in shock.

“I don’t know who you are,” the man said in his croaky voice, “but we only have a few minutes before the others realize that muscles-for-brains isn’t coming back. Get this door open!”

Christopher tried the door first, then moved onto the terminal, before going back to the dead Triggerman to look for keys, or maybe a slip of paper that had the password written down. He found the latter, and a moment later, the door to the office slid open.

Valentine walked to the door to meet him and lit a cigarette. “Gotta appreciate the help,” he said, “But what made our knight-in-shining-armor come rescue an old private eye like me?” By the light of the cigarette, Christopher could faintly make out his rough, peeling skin, his shiny, skeletal right hand, and his glowing yellow eyes.

“What ... the hell are you?” Christopher asked, approaching the figure cautiously. “Some kinda... fucked up ghoul? A new type of mutant?”

Valentine sighed. “I told you, I’m a detective. The rest isn’t important right now.”

“Oh. Well, then,” Christopher said, “your secretary hired me.”

“Ellie? Well, I oughta give her a raise, then,” Valentine said.

“So, why exactly are you locked up in there?”

“Turns out the runaway daughter I was hired to find wasn’t kidnapped. She’s Skinny Malone’s new flame, and she’s got a mean streak a mile wide.” Valentine paused and took another puff on the cigarette. “I’ve said enough. They’ll be coming back to check on me and ol’ Dino any time now. Let’s blow this joint.”

Christopher nodded, and they headed for the door, only stopping momentarily while Christopher grabbed the Vault-Boy bobblehead off the Overseer’s desk. They were out of the Overseer’s office and down the stairs when they heard two new voices - Triggermen.

“Who’s supposed to be watching Valentine?” one asked.

“Dino, I think,” the other said back.

“Well, whoever it is, they ain’t doin’ their job,” the first one said.

“Then go check on ‘em yourself, if you’re so worried about him getting out,” the second replied.

“I ain’t worried about Valentine, he’s just a clockwork dick with a pipe pistol. What I’m worried about is Skinny and that girl of his, if they find out that he escaped.”

“How do you wanna take this?” Valentine whispered to Christopher. “Let ‘em come to us, or go in guns blaz-” Christopher had already taken up his bat and was thundering down the stairs towards the two hapless Triggermen. Valentine sighed and unholstered his pistol. “Guns blazing it is.”

A few moments later, the two Triggermen were taken care of - one lying on his stomach, with a shattered jaw and some other injuries that Christopher couldn’t have named if he tried, and the other with a few new holes in his shirt. Valentine walked over to the bodies, dropped his cigarette on the ground next to him, and crushed it with his boot. “It’s synth detective, jackass.”

***

“‘Go check out the big crater in Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Weird stuff going on in there,’ he said.” Christopher cleaned the last of the blood off of his bat with a rag. “Could have mentioned the raider encampment. I swear, when I get back to Diamond City I am gonna kick Vadim’s ass...”

He trailed off. The music on his pip-boy had stopped suddenly. He checked the screen, hoping that maybe it had just finally died. Instead, there was a flashing message on the screen that read “NEW RADIO FREQUENCY DETECTED - MILITARY FREQUENCY AF95”.

Christopher put his fingers on the dial, ready to switch one frequency up and then back down, as was usually required to clear the message. But he hesitated. In the Capital Wasteland, military frequencies were usually random noises, static used to mask Enclave transmissions. But out here, it was different. A live frequency meant a live person. Someone who could be in trouble.

He sighed and tuned to the right frequency. Static for a few seconds, then a voice he didn’t recognize, speaking words he definitely did.

“Automated message repeating,” the voice said. “This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius to any unit in transmission range. Authorization Arx. Ferrum. Nine. Five. Our unit has sustained casualties and we're running low on supplies. We're requesting support or evac from our position at Cambridge Police Station.”

A lot of the longer words were lost on him, but Christopher got the general gist. A scribe. A squad of soldiers. Meaningless words and numbers instead of a simple passcode. He knew what it all meant.

The Brotherhood of Steel had come to the Commonwealth, and they needed help.


	5. Fly Me to the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher investigates a distress signal and finds himself face to face with a familiar crew.

Christopher rushed through the gap in the barricade in front of the police station. For a structure made out of scrap, it was pretty solidly built, but was already beginning to take damage from the ongoing siege. The outer wall had two levels, with three gates that had all been broken down. The ground was coated with blood, and there were several bodies of raiders lying around. And on the front steps of the police station were two figures, both with laser rifles leveled at Christopher. One was held by a woman in the unmistakable deep orange scribe’s jumpsuit; the other by a man in power armor emblazoned with the Brotherhood’s emblem.

The man in power armor approached Christopher but did not lower his weapon. “Halt and identify yourself, civilian.”

Christopher adjusted his bandana, making sure that it covered his face. “I’m, uh... Butch. Butch DeLoria.”

“Well, Mr. DeLoria,” the armored man said, “You should leave the area immediately. It’s not safe for civilians.”

“Wait!” Christopher said. “The radio signal! You-” he pointed at the scribe “-said you needed help, right? Scribe Haylen? ”

The armored man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a military frequency. How did you access it?”

Christopher held up his left arm. “Pip boy. They can tune into pretty much anything.”

The man sighed. “Civilian, I appreciate the offer, but-”

Haylen cut him off. “Listen, Danse, there’ll be another wave of raiders any second. Just accept the help!”

“Very well,” Danse said. “Do you have a weapon, civilian?” Christopher held up his baseball bat. Danse sighed again, and was about to speak, when Haylen shouted down from her post at the top of the steps.

“More raiders incoming!” she shouted.

Danse quickly put his power armor helmet back on. “That’ll have to do, civilian,” he said. “If you fall, I sincerely hope that it is painless for you.”

Christopher, Danse, and Haylen readied their weapons as the raiders approached. Christopher pulled a grenade out of one of the pouches on his belt, pulled the pin with his teeth, and lobbed it out the middle gate. It exploded, and four or five raiders fell, but it wasn’t nearly enough to stop the advance. Danse and Haylen opened fire on the raiders coming from the left and right gates, while Christopher charged down at the ones streaming from the center. He stopped twenty feet from the approaching mob, planted his feet and lifted his bat to his shoulder. _Piece of cake_ , he thought to himself as bullets whistled past his earrs. _Just like hitting a baseball_.

The first raider charged towards him, brandishing a wicked-looking knife, and Christopher swung the bat as hard as he could. It caught the man in the torso, lifting him up and sending him careening off to the left. As soon as the first raider was gone, another approached, and Christopher caught her on the backswing, hitting her in the jaw and hearing and feeling it crack underneath the bat. A third lunged at him with a switchblade, tearing at his clothes, but they were too thick for it to leave any mark. Christopher took his own switchblade off his belt, flicked it open, and jabbed it into the raider’s ribs. The raider made a gurgling sound and fell to the ground, taking the switchblade with him and allowing Christopher to turn his attention to the raiders still coming.

A few minutes later, and the remaining raiders had retreated. Christopher took a few steps forwards and picked his switchblade out of the dead raider on the ground before him. He wiped it on his pant legs as he wearily made his way to the police station steps and sat down heavily. His muscles ached and the bat felt like lead in his hands. He put one end of the bat on the ground and rested his head on the other.

“Everything okay, civilian?”

Christopher looked up to see Danse looking back down at him. It might have been the angle Christopher was sitting at, or the power armor Danse was wearing, but he seemed to tower over Christopher, blocking out the sun.. “Sure,” Christopher said. “Just ... a little tired, is all.”

Danse nodded. “You performed admirably out there.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, what’s your business here?”

“I told you. I heard the signal, I came to help.”

“Sure,” Danse said. “But the way you handled those ferals was awfully ... experienced. Do you have experience with a local militia?”

Christopher shook his head. “Just a guy trying to survive.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Danse said. “Forgive me if I appear suspicious, but this mission has been difficult. After today’s attacks, it’s down to the three of us now.” Danse gestured to a man Christopher had missed earlier - a man in an orange knight’s uniform, laying next to the door. He was alive but injured, and as Haylen tended to his wounds, Christopher could see that it was serious.

“If you want to keep pitching in,” Danse continued, “We could use an extra weapon. There’s a facility east of here that contains a piece of tech we need. With it, we could boost our signal and request an evac out of here.”

Christopher weighed his options. On one hand, it could be dangerous. He didn’t recognize any of the three Brotherhood soldiers still alive, which could mean that they weren’t around when he was exiled. But there was no guaranteeing that, and besides: the longer he stuck around meant more opportunities to slip up and reveal who he was, and there was no telling how they’d react when that happened. But on the other hand, the sooner he helped them with their mission, the sooner they could call an evac, and the sooner the Brotherhood would be out of the Commonwealth. With any luck, they’d call the whole mission a failure and not return. The Lyons weren’t ones to keep throwing soldiers at a lost cause.

“I’ll help you,” he said, “on one condition. You tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

Danse nodded. “We owe you that much, I suppose. My name is Paladin Danse, of the Brotherhood of Steel. Over there are Scribe Haylen, and Knight Ryhs. We came to the Commonwealth on recon duty, but the vermin of the Commonwealth want our technology. We've been under fire since the moment we arrived and our supplies are running low. Any attempts to contact my superiors have been failures, the signal’s too weak. Which is why we need to go to Arcjet Systems. They have the technology we need: the deep range transmitter. With that, we can upgrade our radio signal and get back into contact with the Brotherhood. So, what do you say? Are you willing to lend the Brotherhood of Steel a hand?” Danse asked.

“No time to waste,” Christopher said.

“Excellent,” Danse said, and turned to his squad. “Haylen, take Rhys inside and tend to his wounds. Once you’re done, both of you make sure the perimeter is secure. There’s a crater nearby where you can bury Knight Keane. It’s not what he deserves, but we don't have the time to do anything else. Do you understand your orders?” Haylen nodded, but Rhys only groaned in response.

“I’ll do my best,” Haylen said. She saluted Paladin Danse as he and Christopher left the station for Arcjet Systems.

***

“Careful, civilian,” Danse said as they crossed the Arcjet Systems lobby. “Pre-War buildings like this are notoriously dangerous. You never know what we could encounter here.”

Arcjet Systems was built much like other Pre-War office buildings that Christopher had encountered over the years. It had a large lobby, going up several stories, with balconies overlooking the first floor, that now all threatened to collapse down on top of them. Across from the front door was the building’s front desk, now battered from years of disuse, flanked by two pots with fake plastic plants in them. On the wall behind the desk was the Arcjet logo, dirtied and dilapidated from the years.

“I know all about Pre-War buildings,” Christopher said as they entered one of the only doors in the lobby that wasn’t caved in or smashed shut.

“And how’s that?”

“I’m a scavver,” Christopher said. “You know, most of the time.”

“When you’re not listening in on military frequencies.”

“Hey, I saved your asses out there, didn’t I?” Christopher asked.

Danse sighed. “I know that I may seem suspicious, civilian. But I just don’t understand why a scavver would tune into a restricted Brotherhood frequency and be willing to lay down his life for a cause he doesn’t even know.”

Christopher shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I help people. It’s what I do. And lay off the ‘civilian’ crap,” he added. “Just call me - uh, Butch.”

“Negatory, civilian,” Danse said. “This is an official Brotherhood mission, and I will address you befitting your rank. I expect you to do so as well, although I do not have high hopes for that.”

Christopher cracked a grin underneath his bandana. “Not likely, Danse.”

Danse sighed. “No, I thought not.”

There was a sound from down the hall and around the corner. “What’s that?” Christopher asked, raising his bat to his shoulder. “Pre-War security?”

“I don’t know,” Danse said. “When we first scouted the building, we didn’t find any security.”

“Then what?”

The noise came closer, still unseen. It was rhythmic and heavy, but not like power armor. More like a Protectron, but even then, something about it seemed off.

Just as the source of the noise was about to come around the corner, Danse raised his laser rifle and pointed it down the hall. “Synths!” he shouted. As if on cue, a pair of synths came around the corner. They looked like Nick, but much less ragged and run down. They each had gleaming white laser pistols in their hands and wore armor that looked like neither metal nor leather.

As soon as the synths rounded the corner, Danse opened fire, and they fell to the ground, sparking and sputtering. Christopher slowly approached and knelt over the two bodies. Like Nick, they had a grayish, rubbery skin that were now pocked with burns and holes, and a metal skeleton underneath, but that was about where the similarities ended. The synths had glassy, vacant eyes - nothing like the lights in Nick’s - and their rubbery faces seemed to be locked in a permanent grimace, as if they were a yao guai baring its teeth at its next meal.

“The Institute,” Danse said as he passed Christopher and poked his head around the corner.

“Huh?” Christopher asked.

“These synths came from the Institute. Take a look at their armor, their weapons. It’s plastic.”

Christopher rapped his knuckles on one of the synth’s chest pieces. Danse was right - it felt more like the plates that Christopher had scavenged out of a Super-Duper Mart than any other armor Christopher had ever felt. He stood back up. “Okay, they’re plastic. What’s that mean?”

Danse turned half back to Christopher. “You’ve never heard of the Institute, civilian?”

Christopher shrugged. “My friend Piper mentions them from time to time, but it’s best not to ask more with her. You never know what’ll set her off for hours.” The word Institute rattled around Christopher’s mind. It sounded so familiar, but it was like there was a blank spot where the word’s greater meaning should have been.

“Color me surprised, civilian,” Danse said as they continued through the building. “From what we gathered from our local intel, the Institute seems to have a large presence in the Commonwealth.”

“Who are they, exactly?”

“Nobody knows. At least, none of our sources did. All we know is that there’s a rumor that they abduct people and replace them with synths.”

Christopher snorted. “How’s that work for them?”

“Not the synths like those-” Danse jerked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction they had come from “- but more sophisticated ones. Ones that are so advanced that you can’t tell one apart from a human.”

“So...” Christopher asked, “how can you tell if someone was a synth?”

“There are certain tests, but most of those are require more sophisticated technology than what the average civilian has access to. The only way to know for sure is to look for a component in the brain that transmits back to the Institute.”

“I’m not an expert, but don’t you need your brain in order to keep living?”

“You do, in fact.”

“That certainly explains why Piper is like ... that, whenever somebody brings up the Institute,” Christopher said.

“The Institute’s work around here has led to increased suspicion and paranoia around the Commonwealth,” Danse continued. “It’s likely they came for the transmitter as well.”

They came into a medium sized room - a laboratory of some kind. Christopher had seen enough of them between his time growing up in the vault alongside his father and Jonas, and in his days with Project Purity. Across the lab was a door, and next to that was a terminal. Christopher sighed. He knew what that meant.

“Alright,” Christopher said, “Spread out and look for a terminal password. Sometimes you’ll find ‘em lying around here cause old world people couldn’t remember ‘em.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just hack the terminal?” Danse asked.

“I mean,” Christopher said, “It might be. But I was never good at all that egghead stuff. My dad tried to teach me how to program on our vault’s terminal, but it never stuck.” As soon as the words left Christopher’s mouth, he cringed internally. He had said too much already.

But Danse didn’t seem to notice. “Shame. If Scribe Haylen were here, she might be able to take a crack at it, but...”

Danse found the password on a scrap of paper sitting on one of the lab benches. He handed it to Christopher, who typed it into the terminal next to the door. The door swung cleanly open, and at the same time, an alarm, deep within the building began to sound. It was a deep, guttural sound, one Christopher had only heard twice before: the day he escaped Vault 101, and the day the Brotherhood invaded the Enclave. It brought to mind a horrifying sense of dread, and instantly Christopher’s heart started pounding. His legs buckled, and he barely caught himself on a nearby cabinet.  
Danse was instantly at his side. “DeLoria,” he said urgently, “Are you okay?”

“I - I - I’m-” Christopher breathed hard, trying to steady himself. His head swam with memories and thoughts that swirled around him. They came in flashes - brief sensory outbursts that overrode everything in the present. He heard Amata pleading with him, felt the rumble in the ground as Liberty Prime fell for the last time, tasted blood in his mouth and felt the hot sting of Officer O’Brian’s baton against his cheek.

“Civilian? Butch? Are you alright?” Danse’s voice was unusually quiet, like he was speaking from the end of a long hallway. Suddenly, Christopher felt a hand on his shoulder that pulled him back into the present with a start. He looked up into an inhuman mask, stoic and menacing. “Civilian?” came a voice from deep within the mask. _Danse. It was Danse, and the mask was his power armor. Of course. Yes._

Christopher accepted Danse’s outstretched hand and pulled himself back up. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Opening that door must have triggered some sort of pre-war security system,” Danse said. “Which means it probably also attracted the attention of any other Institute synths in the building. We’ll have to move quickly if we want to secure the transmitter before they do.”

“Can’t we just call it a loss and go home?” Christopher asked. “I mean, there has to be some other radio signal in the Commonwealth that could contact your - uh, Brotherhood.”

“Negatory, civilian,” Danse said. “The transmitter is absolutely necessary for the success of our mission. We just don’t have the resources right now to acquire another target.” With that, Danse turned and began marching down the stairway beyond the door. Christopher sighed and followed after him.

The stairway opened up onto a large, cavernous room. They were standing near the top of the room, on a sort of catwalk that spiraled down the edges. The whole thing was cloaked in darkness; the only source was what spilled out from behind Christopher and Danse.

“The transmitter should be just beyond this room,” Danse said, “But we’ll have to restore power to this room in order to access the elevator.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Christopher said. He paused and squinted down into the inky darkness below. “How?”

Danse flicked on the light on his power armor helmet. “We’ll have to look for it. Does that pip-boy have a light on it?”

Christopher smacked his hand against the side of his pip-boy twice. “Not since Jersey.”

“Then we’ll have to stick together.”

They carefully made their way down the catwalks, which had collapsed in some parts and seemed about to in others. There was a small control room at the bottom. In it was a few dark terminals, including a large panel with a lot of buttons, a jury-rigged weapon of some sort, and a large switch on the other side of the room. Christopher crossed to the other side of the room and looked back at Danse expectantly. When Danse gave him the “all-clear” thumbs up, he flipped the switch.

The lights flickered back on, and at the same time, the alarm began blaring once more. Christopher staggered and clutched his head with both hands. Through the haze of panic and over the blare of the alarm, he vaguely heard Danse saying something about more synths, and then leaving the room.

Christopher stumbled to his feet, hands still over his ears, and looked out the control room window back into the large cavern they had come from. Outside the room, illuminated by several floodlights, was Danse, fighting off swarms of synths. He turned towards Christopher and shouted something that Christopher couldn’t quite hear. He took his hands off his ears and, over the laser blasts and alarms, heard Danse yelling, “Do something, civilian! Press a button! Press every button!”

Christopher, in a panic, slammed a fist down on the big red button. At once, the door to the main chamber slammed shut, and a nearby terminal showed a series of numbers - 30, 29, 28, and so on. The light in the main chamber began to get brighter, and also warmer, turning from the cold blues of the floodlights to something more orange. With only 15 seconds left on the countdown, Christopher realized what was about to happen.

He pounded on the door, but it would not budge, so he tried for the window instead. It was equally impenetrable, but it did attract the attention of Paladin Danse. “Civilian?” Danse asked. “What’s going on?”

“Run!” Christopher shouted. “You have to get out of there before-”

He was cut off as a mighty roar billowed from somewhere above Danse, and instantly, the entire chamber was filled with a blast of orange fire, the likes of which Christopher had never seen before. It reminded him of the tales of the great war he had heard from the poor ghouls unlucky enough to have lived through it. Christopher backed away from the window until he was pressed against the concrete wall, watching the wall of flame through the window with horror.

The flames soon abated, and Christopher crept back to the window. Outside, the smoking chamber floor was marked by small piles of ash, twisted metal, and glowing melted plastic. In the center of the carnage was a bulky humanoid figure, kneeling on the ground - Paladin Danse, or what was left of him.

Christopher rushed out the door back into the main chamber. He approached the figure slowly and cautiously. “Danse?” he asked, speaking slowly and softly, almost whispering. “Are you still alive?”

The figure moved unsteadily, and from somewhere deep within, there was a noise like a cough. “Affirmative, civilian,” the paladin said. “That was ... some quick thinking back there.” The figure began to stand up, and Christopher rushed toward him to help, but Danse held up a hand. “Don’t touch the armor,” Danse said, his voice sounding strained. “The armor is ... still hot. It’ll burn you if you touch it.” He stood unsteadily and looked up. “That must have been a pre-war rocket engine that you set off, civilian. Surprised it’s still up and running after all these years.”

“Maybe that’s why the Institute is here,” Christopher offered.

“Maybe,” Danse said. “But we should keep moving. I doubt that those were all the synths in the building. We should locate the transmitter and leave the facility as soon as possible.”

They quickly searched the lab next to the rocket chamber, but came up empty handed. The only way out of the lab - besides the rickety network of catwalks that they had come down - was an elevator at the far end of the lab, and so Christopher and Danse crammed into the small elevator. An uncomfortable amount of heat still radiated off of Danse’s armor, and Christopher pressed against the wall to avoid it as best he could.

There was another lab at the top of the elevator, again filled with synths, though not for long. Two of them had been in the process of removing the transmitter from a row of terminals, and Christopher easily plucked it from the remains of their metal skeletons.

They didn’t talk much on the way back from Arcjet. Christopher felt like celebrating, but he didn’t think that Danse would be too keen on joining in. And besides, they were celebrating for entirely different reasons. For Danse, the transmitter was a way back home. But for Christopher, it was a sign that the Brotherhood would leave the Commonwealth and not return, and that, to Christopher, was ideal.

“Thank you for your help,” Danse said as they approached the police station. “I still don’t know why a scavver like you would help out the Brotherhood, but... we really appreciate it.”

“Just doing my part,” Christopher said, uneasily. “You seemed like you needed help, so ... I helped.”

“Well, whatever your motivations, civilian, we appreciate it.” Danse paused, as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t know how. “You know,” he said slowly, “if you were interested, the Brotherhood of Steel could use a man on the ground. Someone who really knows their way around the Commonwealth. We don’t usually recruit from outside, but you’ve done the Brotherhood a lot of good today. We’d like - I mean, I’d like, to repay you in any way we can.”

Christopher’s heart dropped. “I would have thought that the Brotherhood would leave the Commonwealth after today. Hasn’t your whole mission been a failure? No sense in throwing soldiers at a lost cause, right?”

As they walked through the barricade that surrounded the front steps of the police station, Danse gave what Christopher assumed was a funny look, but was masked by his power armor helmet. “On the contrary, civilian,” Danse said. “From what we’ve seen of the Institute, they’re dangerous and need to be stopped. Destroyed, if possible. I know that Elder Maxson will agree with me.”

Christopher’s head reeled. “Elder ... Maxson?”

“The leader of the Brotherhood of Steel,” Danse explained. “He’s stationed in the Capital Wasteland, some 400 miles south of here. On my recommendation, I believe that he will send reinforcements so that we can destroy the Institute once and for all.”

Christopher was speechless. He sat down on the front steps of the police station and put his head in his hands. A new elder, the possibility of the Brotherhood coming to the Commonwealth - it was all too much. Danse stood over him, not quite sure what to do. “It’s a lot to consider at once,” Danse said. “I understand if you need some time to think it over. Go home and think it over, civilian. The Brotherhood of Steel will be waiting.”


	6. Eques Orientum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some painful memories help Christopher make a hard decision.

“I’m sorry, Christopher. You’re a hero, and you have to leave.”

Christopher stared at Amata in disbelief. “I ... what?”

“I’m sorry, Christopher, I am. But the older folks here ... they’ll never understand. What you - what we all had to do. To them, you’re just a symbol of everything that started this whole mess, you and your dad. But if you leave, then... well, eventually, they’ll forget about you.”

“So that’s it?” Christopher turned away from Amata. He couldn’t look at her, not now, without becoming overwhelmed. Even so, his face felt hot and his eyes burned. “After everything we’ve been through?”

Amata sighed and moved closer. “The others might forget you, but I won’t, Christopher. And everything you’ve done for us. But this is the way it has to be.”

“I ... I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.” Amata threw her arms around Christopher, and they stood like that for a long moment. “You should get ready to leave,” she said at last. “I’ll meet you by the vault entrance. I’m sure I can rally a goodbye party.” With that, Amata left, leaving Christopher alone in his old bedroom, with his power armor standing next to his bed.

Christopher sighed and began to pack up his things. There wasn’t a lot - his winterized power armor, the chinese officer’s sword, his assault rifle - but he made sure to move slowly, trying to spend as much time in his room as he could before he had to leave it behind forever.

He was attaching his sword sheath to the back of his power armor when he heard his bedroom door slide open with a hiss behind him. “I’m sorry, Amata, I don’t really want to talk right now,” he said, not looking up from his power armor.

“Nice lookin’ jacket you got there,” the voice in the doorway said. Christopher whipped around to see Butch DeLoria standing in the doorway, picking the dirt from under his fingernails with his switchblade. In the process, he knocked into his power armor, sending it crashing to the floor.

“I - shit,” Christopher muttered, and he bent down to piece the armor back together.

“I’d have thought that they’d have other clothes to choose from out in the wasteland,” Butch continued, apparently unfazed.

“Call me sentimental,” Christopher muttered.

“You’re some kinda mental, alright,” Butch said. “If I were out there, there wouldn’t be no way in hell you’d drag me back to this hole in the ground.”

“Didn’t you hear?” asked Christopher. “Amata’s overseer now, and she’s opening the vault. You can finally leave, found the Tunnel Snakes for real.”

“Yeah, yeah, she told me already. She’s trying to rally the troops to say goodbye to some grognak in a tin can, don’t know what that’s all about.”

Christopher knew he should have been offended, but despite himself, he smiled. He had missed this, in a weird way. “You could come with me, you know. I could always use a second gun on my side.”

Butch flicked his switchblade shut. “Sorry, Chrissy-boy. I like this whole ... knight-in-shining-armor thing you’ve got goin’ on here, but, I’ll be honest, it don’t really work with what I’m picturing for the Tunnel Snakes. We’re more of a biker gang, you know? Except, I don’t really know if they have bikes up there still.” He paused, and gave a sad, sort of smile. “What I’m saying, Chrissy, is ... maybe we’ll see each other up there.”

“Yeah,” Christopher said. “Maybe.”

Butch stood, and walked out the door. Christopher watched him go, until an impulse over took him. He jumped up from where he was kneeling and bolted out the door, feet pounding down the hallway until he caught up with Butch. He put both hands on his shoulders, spun him around, and-

Christopher awoke in a cold sweat, tangled in his bedsheets. He tried to disentangle himself, and at the same time, find the lamp on his bedside table. In the darkness, neither endeavor was successful. A few moments later, he had freed himself, and uncovered the lantern. Though small, it cast enough light to remind him of where - and when - he was. It was 2287, and he was in his home, in Diamond City, somewhere in the Commonwealth.

Christopher took the lantern and plodded downstairs to get a drink. Ever since the Prydwen had arrived in the Commonwealth a few weeks back, Christopher spent every night haunted by memories of the Capital Wasteland. They were different every night - one night he would revisit Tranquility Lane, another he and Fawkes would be storming Raven Rock, and in a third he’d be listening to his father read him stories from his book of Arthurian legends. He had hoped, with time, they’d go away, and so would the Brotherhood, but both remained, hanging over him like a storm cloud, and, in the Brotherhood’s case, far more literally.

As Christopher filled a glass with water from a pitcher, he heard the faint music from his pip boy, which was stuffed in a pillowcase and placed between the oven and the refrigerator. Two days ago, the radio’s off switch had stopped working, so now, the best thing he could do was turn it down all the way and put it somewhere where the sound wouldn’t carry up to where he was sleeping. On a whim, he picked it up and turned the volume back up. His dad used to play him music when he was a kid to get him to fall asleep - so said, at least, his dad - so it was worth a shot.

Travis had already gone to bed for the night, which meant that Diamond City radio was going to be nothing but songs until morning. Not bad, but most of them weren’t exactly calming, unless the sound of Dion singing about going town to town made you drowsy. The next station was playing music too similar to the kind of thing that the Enclave radio used to play for Christopher to be comfortable. He remembered the classical radio station - it wasn’t Christopher’s usual type of music, but he had vague memories of his dad talking about some guy 500 years ago named “Beef Oven”, who apparently put baby Christopher to sleep every time.

As he was tuning to the station, Christopher heard a familiar voice. “This is Paladin Danse on frequency nine five,” the voice said. “All Brotherhood of Steel units are to return to the Cambridge Police Station immediately for reassignment. Repeating...”

Christopher sat down heavily at his kitchen table and looked around at his still-mostly-empty home. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had heard the message. But this time, somehow, it hit differently. For the first time, Christopher actually began to consider it. _It’s not the like the Brotherhood is going anywhere at this point_ , he thought to himself, _And you can’t hide from them in Diamond City forever. Besides, maybe a change in leadership might be good. I don’t know if what Arthur thinks of me now - if that is Arthur in charge - but he might be more forgiving than the Lyons were._

_Come on,_ Christopher thought. _Are you kidding me? You’re really taking this guy seriously?_ Christopher snorted at the thought of calling himself “this guy”, and then continued his argument with himself: _No matter what Arthur thinks of you, the Brotherhood would never take you back. Unless all of the old guard have mysteriously vanished, the majority of the people on the Prydwen will remember who you are._

_But that could be a good thing, right? Sarah and Owen don’t seem the type to tell people why they kicked me out. And besides, if I can prove I’ve changed, then all is well, right?_   
_You don’t know that._

_Only one way to find out._ With that seemingly settled, Christopher quickly dressed and headed out into the cool night air.

***

The sky was just beginning to lighten when Christopher reached the police station. Despite the early hour, the police station was swarming with people. There were three or four soldiers, wearing power armor and armed with laser rifles, keeping watch from the top of the newly-repaired barricade, and more within the barricade’s perimeter.

As Christopher approached, the one closest to him raised his laser rifle towards him. “Halt and identify yourself, civilian!” she said.

Christopher sighed. “This again?” he asked himself. “The radio said for all Brotherhood personnel to return to the police station,” he said more loudly. “Here I am.”

“Name and rank, please?”

“Butch DeLoria, and I don’t have one yet. I worked with Paladin Danse about a month ago, and he offered me a job. Can I please talk to him?”

“Oh, uh, right this way,” the soldier said. Christopher walked through the barricade and into the police station. Inside, Danse was talking to two scribes. He wasn’t in his power armor yet, only a very tight fitting jumpsuit. Christopher seriously hoped that wasn’t the standard uniform now.

“There are plenty of pre-war laboratories in the city itself,” Danse was saying. “They should contain lots of documentation, who knows what scientists were working on before the war...” He trailed off when he saw Christopher enter. “Mr. DeLoria,” he said, “I didn’t expect to see you back.”

“Well, I just couldn’t stay away,” Christopher said, smiling under his bandana. “I’d like to join the Brotherhood.”  
Danse smiled. “Excellent. Today was the day I was scheduled to return to the Prydwen for reassignment, now that the police station and the surrounding area has been secured. I trust you saw the airship to the southeast.”

“I ... noticed it, yes.”

“That’s the pride of the Brotherhood,” Danse said, almost wistfully. “Its presence in the Commonwealth means that the Brotherhood is willing to do anything to stop the Institute from producing more synths. It’s where I’m to report to, and where you should, too. Lancer-Captain Kells will be glad to see the first of our recruitment efforts in the Commonwealth.”

“Well,” Christopher said, “let’s get going. It’ll be a long walk.”

“Negatory, civilian. Have you ever ridden in a vertibird?”

Christopher had, multiple times, in his time with the Brotherhood, but he figured that wasn’t the right answer. “I - what’s a vertibird?”

“Follow me up to the roof. You’ll see soon enough.”

***

The ride to the Prydwen was uneventful, as far as vertibird rides go. It was Christopher’s first time riding in one in over seven years, and the things sure went a lot faster than he remembered them going. But still, despite being posted on a minigun with Danse’s strict instructions to make good use of it, it was surprisingly relaxing. The sun was just coming up, sending long shadows across the Commonwealth. It looked so small from the air, so peaceful. And the Prydwen looked much bigger than he remembered it.

Christopher had never been officially deployed on the Prydwen. It was still under construction when he left the Brotherhood, and once he had done that, he didn’t have much reason to return to Adams Air Force Base anymore. He had seen the airship patrolling the Capital Wasteland a few times, but never up close and personal like this.

Danse smoothly navigated the vertibird into a slot on the bottom of the airship, and something above them took hold and brought it up to a network of catwalks that ran underneath the massive balloon. Christopher and Danse disboarded the vertibird and made their way down the catwalk, where they were greeted by a man in fatigues and a rather impressive hat. Christopher recognized him as Charles Kells, and adjusted his bandana.

“Welcome back, Paladin,” Kells said as they approached. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Danse said, “But it’s not done yet. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Is this our new recruit?” Kells asked, turning towards Christopher. Almost instinctively, Christopher snapped to attention, and had to stop himself from doing the Brotherhood’s salute. _Old habits die hard_ , he thought to himself.

“Yes, sir,” Danse said. “Initiate DeLoria. I’ve decided to sponsor his membership into our ranks personally.”

“DeLoria, huh?” Kells asked. “Elder Maxson has read your reports, and has approved your request for membership. He wishes to meet with you both personally.”

Danse raised an eyebrow. “Both of us, sir?”

“Those are his orders, Paladin. I understand it’s unusual, but these are unusual times. You are both dismissed.”

Danse saluted Kells. “Ad Victoriam, captain.”

“Ad Victoriam, Paladin.”

Danse coughed, and Christopher hastily copied his salute. “Uh, Ad Victoriam, captain.”

“Ad Victoriam, initiate.” Kells turned and made his way down the catwalk towards another vertibird about to depart, and Danse and Christopher made their way bowward.

“Take off your bandana,” Danse whispered as they entered the Prydwen’s belowdecks. “And salute the Elder when you enter.”

“My ... bandana?” Christopher asked, reaching up to his face instinctively. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I got some gnarly scars from a yao guai a few years back. Messed up the lower part of my face pretty bad.” It was half-true at best; a radroach had done the deed instead of a yao guai, the damage was fairly minimal, and Christopher had been seven at the time.

“That’s an order, Initiate,” Danse said. “The Elder is not someone to take lightly.”

Christopher sighed, and, unable to see a way to further prolong the inevitable, undid the bandana. He gave Danse a glance out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t say anything. If Danse recognized him, he gave no indication.

Elder Maxson was waiting for them on the observation deck, a large room at the front of the Prydwen made almost entirely of windows that overlooked the Commonwealth below. He stood there now, looking down on the harbor like a king overlooking his lands.

Maxson did not turn when Danse and Christopher entered. He barely seemed to acknowledge their entrance. “Ad Victoriam, Elder,” Danse said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Ad Victoriam, Elder,” Christopher echoed.

“Ad Victoriam,” Maxson said, turning to face them at last. Christopher could hardly believe that this was little Arthur, who had been just 15 years old when he last saw him. The years had aged him quickly. He had a chiseled jaw, a healthy dusting of stubble, and a long scar underneath his right eye. It was hard to believe that this was Arthur, sure - but that this man was the Elder? That was easy.

Danse began to speak. “This is-”

“Initiate DeLoria, yes. I read your reports,” Maxson said, almost dismissively. “Imagine my surprise to hear that Paladin Danse had help from one of the most prolific gang leaders in the capital wastelands.”

Danse turned towards Christopher, his face a mixture of shock and anger. “What is this?” he asked.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Christopher said. “It’s a ... common name.”

“Imagine my further surprise,” Maxson continued, walking slowly towards Danse and Christopher, like a prowling yao guai, “When Danse reported that DeLoria was a hulking blonde man with a pip-boy, who somehow knew how to tune into military frequencies - our frequencies - and was incredibly skilled with a baseball bat.” He stopped just in front of the pair. “Tell me, initiate. What is your name, really?”

Christopher’s heart pounded in his chest. “Christopher Lancelot Farris, Elder, sir,” he said, steadying his voice. “Designation CF247K.”

Danse breathed in, sharply. “The fallen knight,” he whispered.

Maxson stood for a moment, then another, staring intensely at Christopher, before he broke into a wide smile. “Welcome back, Knight. We all thought you were dead.”

Christopher let out a sigh of relief. “I thought that ... after what happened, the Lyons would never let me back.”

“And they might not have,” Maxson said. “Your expulsion was hasty, Farris. Ill-advised. Emotional. I tried to convince Sarah to let you stay, to get you help, but what could I do? I was just a squire.”

“Sarah,” Christopher said. “What happened to her? To Owyn?”

Maxson’s face darkened. “Owyn passed away not long after you left. They said you were like a second son to him. And for Sarah, the combination of your banishment and her father’s death was too much for her. She became reckless. She wouldn’t listen to anyone, least of all me. She spent more time out in the field than actually doing what the rank of Elder demanded. She was tragically killed during the raids against the final mutant strongholds in the Capital. Lyon’s Pride was disbanded, and after a few tragically incompetent Elders, I was promoted to the rank.”

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said. “That sounds awful.”

“Nonsense,” Maxson said. “The loss of Sarah and Owyn was tragic, yes. But we have persevered. I have vowed that the Brotherhood will never lose sight of our goals, our beliefs, our duty to the wasteland. To that end, we have never failed. The people of the Capital Wasteland are safe and happy. They have clean drinking water and full bellies, and never have to worry about mutants, ghouls, or half-breed raiders. We have expanded our territories to the northwest, helped the peoples of Appalachia and the Pitt rise above their barbaric ways. And now we’re here, to destroy the synth menace once and for all. The Brotherhood has never been more powerful, Farris. And now, fate herself has delivered our prodigal son back to us.”

“You mean-”

“I am officially reinstating you as a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel. Welcome back, Knight Farris.”

“I ... I don’t know what to say, Arthur.”

“I have to agree, Elder,” Danse said. “With all due respect, may we discuss this decision? In private?”

“Paladin, I believe we have discussed the issue plenty. After all, it was your reports on Farris that convinced me to allow him back into our ranks.”

“But that was before-”

Maxson shot Danse a glare that stopped him in his tracks. “That’s enough, Paladin.”

“Yes, Elder.” Danse stepped back and glared at the ground.

“Now, Farris,” Maxson continued, “there’s a lot of work to be done securing the area. Although we’ve had some success holding the Boston airport, there’s a group of super mutants that have taken hold of a nearby military base. They may not know it, but they’re sitting on a stockpile of mini nukes that could level half the Commonwealth if they wanted. I want you and Danse to go there and wipe them out. Understood?”

“Affirmative, Elder,” Christopher said. The words felt foreign in his mouth; it was a long time since he had taken orders from anyone. He turned to leave when Maxson stopped him.

“No, no,” Maxson said. “Those rags you’re wearing may be suitable for a scavver, but they’re hardly befitting someone of your ranking, Farris.”

“What would you recommend, Arthur?”

Maxson smiled again. “Danse, report to the vertibird and inform them that you are nearly ready for departure. Farris, follow me.”

Danse nodded. “Ad Victoriam, Elder. Ad Victoriam, knight.”

Christopher and Maxson echoed the farewell, and Danse left the observation deck. As soon as he was gone, Maxson turned to Christopher. “You’ll have to forgive him, Christopher,” he said. “The Lyons and the proctors were secretive about your expulsion. Some people thought that you left due to ... relational disputes, with Sarah. Others thought you abandoned us. And with rumors that you were still galavanting around the wasteland ... well, you can see where the legends of the fallen knight came from. Not all of them good.”

“I understand,” Christopher said. “I didn’t think that everyone would be happy with my return, but...” he trailed off. “It was time to take up arms. I’ve seen the people down there suffering, barely able to survive day-to-day life. If there’s anyone who can help the Commonwealth, it’s the Brotherhood.”

“I’m glad we see eye-to-eye on this,” Maxson said. “And, to that end, we need to get you equipped.” He lead the way out of the observation deck down onto the main deck. “Now, I had to fight Proctor Ingram to bring these along with us. Weight is valuable on a ship like this. But I knew, reading Danse’s reports, that you’d return to us sooner or later. Which is why I want to give you these.”

They reached the engineering deck, where a woman encased in power armor was working on a very familiar set of power armor. It was a slightly lighter gray, almost white, than the standard Brotherhood power armor. It was a different build than most of the Brotherhood’s armor, too - T-51b instead of the new suits that many of the Brotherhood seemed to use. Welded to the back was a sheath, holding a sword with a switch on the handle.

“You held onto it, after all these years?” Christopher asked as he slowly approached the armor. The woman stepped back, and with a nod from Maxson, went to work on another suit of armor.

“Of course,” Maxson said. “Neither Owyn nor Sarah could bear to throw it out, but neither of them let anyone else use it. For years, it sat in your old quarters. Until now.” Christopher put his palm flat against the chest of the power armor, as if to reassure himself that it was really there. “Go ahead,” Maxson said. “Suit up. It’s time for the fallen knight to rise again.”


	7. Falling Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher takes a leap of faith, and Danse is forced to re-evaluate his feelings on the subject.

Christopher strode down the Prydwen’s flight deck towards the waiting vertibird. His first steps in the power armor were long and heavy, just how Christopher remembered it. He had expected the feeling of wearing power armor to have changed from being so many years out of practice, but, like his dad used to say, it was just like riding a bike. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Paladin Danse was waiting next to the vertibird, his face a soldierly, stoic mask. Any warmth the paladin had shown towards Christopher had apparently died when the idea of Knight DeLoria did. Now, he gave Christopher the same look that many of the passing Brotherhood personnel did - looks of confusion, sometimes anger, sometimes awe, with whispers shooting through the air like bullets in a firefight.

“Are you ready to head out, Knight?” Paladin Danse asked, holding his own helmet in one massive gauntlet.

“As I’ll ever be,” Christopher said with a grin. Danse did not return it, and silently put on his helmet before entering the vertibird. Christopher sighed and donned his own before entering the other side.

“So what’s the plan of attack, Paladin?” Christopher asked as the vertibird began the take-off process. “Swarms of vertibirds, guns blazing?”

“Not so fast, Knight,” Danse said, nearly shouting to be heard over the vertibird propellers as they made their way towards Fort Strong. “We don’t have the resources to deploy vertibirds as gunships quite yet, not until Proctor Ingram takes the time to reinstall the weapon armaments. For now, they’re strictly transport vehicles. For this mission, we’ll take a circle around the fort to try to determine the best spot to touch down. You’ll be inland, so if you want to try to take some preliminary shots with the minigun, go ahead. Once we’ve secured a landing base, I’ll radio for reinforcements, and we can storm Fort Strong. Do you understand, Knight?”

“Mhm,” Christopher said, not really listening as the fort came into view. As far as military forts went, Christopher found it rather lackluster. It was more like a small town than a proper fort like the Citadel - a few blocks of rubble that might have once been housing for pre-war soldiers, and a large brick building at the end of the island, largely intact. As promised, the entire island was swarming with super mutants, forming rough patrols through the ruined streets, with a behemoth taking lumbering, aimless steps around the island. Even at this distance, a few of the mutants were beginning to take notice of the approaching vertibird.

The pilot took them on a few loops around the island, and Christopher began to lay into the super mutants with the mounted minigun. He had never been one for guns - he only used his assault rifle in cases of emergency - but the minigun had a certain elegant simplicity to it. You point it in the general direction of whoever you wanted to kill, pull the trigger, and let the gun do the rest of the work. But it was doing surprisingly little - sure, he could get in a few good shots here and there, but the vertibird was moving too fast and the streets were too narrow for Christopher to get a solid bead on anything but the behemoth, who was shrugging off the rounds like they were confetti.

Inspiration suddenly struck Christopher, and he looked over his shoulder at the pilot. “Hey, uh... pilot guy?” he asked.

“The name’s Lancer Rivera,” the pilot said. “What can I do for you?”

“Is there any way you could take us a little higher? I can’t get a good read on these mutants.”

“While I admire your enthusiasm, Knight, we’re just looking for a place to put ‘er down,” Rivera said.

“Right,” Christopher muttered. “Can you take us over the behemoth on the next pass, then? Just wanna take one more whack at it.”

The lancer looked back at Danse, as if to get permission, before shrugging. “Sure, why not?” He turned the bird in the direction of the behemoth and took a bit of altitude, just to get out of throwing range. The vertibird whined and groaned as it rose into the air - its not that they hadn’t been designed for higher altitudes, Christopher remembered Sarah Lyons telling him once, but after 200 years of service, they sure didn’t like them.

“High enough for you?” Rivera asked.

“Should be,” Christopher said. He slid out of his seat and leaned over the edge of the vertibird to watch the island below.

In the cabin behind him, Danse watched as Christopher prepared himself. “What are you doing, Knight?” he asked. “If the behemoth hits us, there’s a serious chance you could fall from the vertibird.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Christopher said, gripping both sides of the door. “I am the Falling Knight, after all, aren’t I?”

“I believe it was-” Danse started, but Christopher was already gone.

Christopher hurtled towards the ground, the green speck below becoming bigger with every passing second. Fighting against the wind, he reached for the sword on his back and unsheathed it. He held it in both hands above his head and flicked the switch, struggling to stay on target as the wind whipped past him. In the moments before impact, Christopher gained an odd amount of clarity regarding his present situation. It was one of his dumber ideas, jumping out of a vertibird to attack a behemoth with a sword - up there with “mixing Vadim’s moonshine with Nuka Cola Quantum”, “touching a crashed alien spaceship”, and Piper’s personal favorite, “buying a change card from that ginger asshat”. But this did seem like it would take the cake.

Christopher slammed into the behemoth. One thing he hadn’t considered was that while all power armors came with inertia dampers that could reduce the shock of a long fall, they only really worked if you landed on your feet, and not a behemoth. He was vaguely aware of the crunching of bone and sinew underneath the force of the impact, and of his sword being wrenched from his hands - either from the impact itself or from lodging itself into the behemoth as he fell and subsequently bounced away - but what demanded most of Christopher’s attention was the splitting pain in his entire body, the way that the armor’s servos fought against his limbs threatening to twist in every single direction at once.

Christopher lay facedown on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, as the pounding of massive footsteps staggering around him echoed in his helmet. He slowly picked himself up and looked up at the massive thing before him. The behemoth looked as dazed as Christopher did, and it’s upper body was crushed and deformed, it’s shoulders twisted in a way that was horrifyingly inhuman - even for a behemoth. It slowly stumbled around the ruined street they were standing in, and kept pawing at something in it’s back that it couldn’t quite reach - his sword, still switched on and lodged deep into the behemoth’s shoulder. Judging by the approaching shouts of super mutants, he knew he didn’t have much time. “Hey, big ugly!” he shouted at the behemoth, and cringed inside - it reminded him too much of what hicks in the more remote parts of the Capital Wasteland used to yell at Fawkes.

Still, it did the job. The behemoth turned and, through a haze of pain and confusion, stared down at the armored man half his size. “Yeah, you! Look over here!” Christopher shouted again, waving his hands. It grunted, and then wound up for a kick.

Christopher only had half a second to dive out of the way before the massive bare foot whiffed through the space he had previously been occupying. Christopher vaulted over the low remnants of a brick wall and crouched there for just a moment, trying to formulate a plan, until the behemoth’s fire hydrant club smashed through the brick next to where he sat, and he was forced to move again. He scrambled up the creaky, ruined stairs onto what remained of the building’s second floor.

From this height, he was just above eye level with the behemoth, which lumbered closer, gripping its club in one hand and trying its best to ignore the pain in its other shoulder. Christopher took a few steps back from the edge as the behemoth approached. He knew he’d only have one chance at this. He took a deep breath and ran towards the approaching behemoth, springing over the mutant’s head and wrapping his arms around its neck. Freeing one hand, he grabbed onto his sword, found purchase on the behemoth’s back, and wrenched it free from the mutant’s shoulder.

The behemoth roared in pain, and when Christopher jammed the sword into its side, it turned into more of a guttural scream. It fell to its knees, wobbling slightly before landing face first in the center of a ruined intersection. Super mutants approached from every direction, but stopped their approach as they watched the armored figure pick himself up and pull his sword from the behemoth’s broken body.

“Yeah?” Christopher bellowed at the approaching army, suddenly filled with a newfound confidence. “Who’s fucking next?”

An answer to his question came from the street pointing towards the Prydwen and the Boston airport - the sound of dozens of laser rifles and metal boots tromping. The mutants raised their weapons, but were quickly cut down by the Brotherhood reinforcements - dozens of paladins, knights, and other soldiers. They surged through the streets, stepping on and over the bodies of mutants - sometimes before they had even taken their last breath.

Through this sudden flood of soldiers, Paladin Danse burst forth, pointing his laser rifle at each target methodically, ensuring they went down before moving onto the next. It was cruel in it’s efficiency, and showed a side to the Paladin that Christopher had never seen before, in the short time that they’d known each other. A side that Christopher wasn’t sure he liked.

When the Brotherhood soldiers had finished their work in the streets and continued the crusade towards Fort Strong, Paladin Danse approached Christopher. “Knight Farris,” he said, ripping his helmet off, tossing it to the ground, and pointing at Christopher, “what you did was irresponsible, dangerous, and put in jeopardy not only your life, but that of everyone on that vertibird, not to mention that of the ground forces. I have half a mind to report this to the Elder and have you discharged for reckless endangerment. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Christopher looked to the slain behemoth, then to the last of the Brotherhood forces as they stormed the fort. “You wanted me to clear the way. We needed that behemoth dead. You and Lancer Rivera were able to land safely, and led the charge for the rest of the ground forces. With all due respect, paladin, I accomplished all of the mission parameters”  
Paladin Danse spluttered angrily. “I - that’s not - you -”

Christopher ignored him, wiping the mutant blood from his sword onto the dead behemoth. “I’ll tell you what, Danse. I’m going to report back to the Prydwen, probably report to the sick bay so that whoever took over after Sawbones finally gave out can take a look at my - my everything, really. After that, I’m going to have a vertibird take me to Diamond City, to my house, where I will await further orders. Tonight, I’m going to the Dugout Inn, and I’m going to have a drink. And Danse?” Christopher looked over his shoulder as he walked away, as best as the armor would allow. “I’d really like it if you joined me.”

***

Christopher sat down wearily on a barstool directly in front of Vadim. In the hours following the attack, his whole body had begun to ache from exertion, and his ribs were tender where the Prydwen’s medic, Knight-Captain Cade, had bandaged them. He’d not even returned to Home Plate yet - a quick drink, Christopher reasoned, then he’d go change out of the stuffy Brotherhood uniform, shower, and return to wait for Danse.

Vadim gave him an odd look as he sat down. “Nice jumpsuit,” he said dismissively. “You drinking?”

“Sure am,” Christopher said. “The usual. Put it on my tab.”

Vadim nodded and pulled a glass from underneath the bar. As he poured, Christopher looked around and caught the eye of Hawthorne, who had previously been chatting up the waitress further down the bar. “Hey, Christopher, what’s with the gettup?” he shouted across the bar, and suddenly all eyes were on him.

“It’s, ah, a uniform,” Christopher stammered.

Hawthorne raised an eyebrow and looked the orange and black jumpsuit up and down. “For what? A Nuka-Cola themed militia?”

Christopher rolled his eyes and offered a grim smile as the bar erupted into laughter. Then, as soon as it had started, it suddenly stopped. Vadim set the drink on the bar and pointed over Christopher’s shoulder. “I believe he is here for you.”

Christopher turned to see Danse standing at the end of the long entry hallway to the Dugout Inn. Like Christopher, he was still wearing his Brotherhood jumpsuit, and looked almost embarrassed to have interrupted whatever festivities were taking place. “No worries, citizens,” he said, holding up an apologetic hand, “I am only here to get mildly intoxicated.”

The others in the bar seemed either satisfied with the answer or too apathetic to question it further, and returned to their drinks and conversation. Danse took the seat next to Christopher and raised a finger. “One whiskey, please,” Danse said. Vadim looked him up and down, grunted affirmatively, and pulled a shot glass from underneath the bar.

“To be honest,” Christopher said without looking over, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Neither did I,” Danse said. “Lancer-Captain Kells wasn’t happy, having to dispatch two vertibirds to the same location across Boston, one right after the other.”

“I can imagine,” Christopher said. “You must have had to pull some strings to get yourself out here.”

“I ... had to exchange a favor, yes,” Danse said, and at that moment, a group of initiates, no older than their late teens and early twenties, burst into the Inn. Vadim looked ecstatic at the prospect of new customers, while the waitress, who was still talking to Hawthorne, looked positively terrified. Danse cracked an apologetic smile, and nodded to the couches. “It might be best if we relocate.”

Once safely out of the horde of initiates, Christopher turned back to Danse. “So, if it was so much trouble to get out here that they put you on initiate-sitting duty, why even bother coming?”

Danse took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. I stand by it, to an extent. What you did - speaking from a purely strategic standpoint - was incredibly risky, and could have resulted in your death, not to mention the logistics of a sudden weight redistribution in a vertibird-” he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and began again. “What I mean to say is, I underestimated the impact your return would have on the Brotherhood. We never knew each other personally, back in the Capital Wasteland. The Brotherhood was expanding rapidly, and we were assigned to different squads - I served under Paladin Krieg, and you ran with Lyon’s Pride. But I saw how ... broken the Brotherhood was after you disappeared. Elder Lyons was heartbroken, and Sentinel Lyons was never quite the same. She became focused, single-minded. Some say it drove her to make rash decisions, and that it...”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Christopher asked pointedly, not looking at Danse.

“I’m sorry,” Danse said. “What I’m trying to say is that when you returned this morning, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want the Brotherhood to go back to the way it was after ... you know.” He paused, and then continued, “When you jumped out of the vertibird, I saw someone dangerously reckless with no regard for his own life or the lives of others.”

“Thanks,” Christopher said humorlessly.

“But today,” Danse pressed on, “when I returned to the Prydwen, I saw something different. I saw hope. The story spread like wildfire - the giant-slayer leaping from his mighty steed to take down his mighty opponent.” He paused, and for a moment Christopher thought he was done, until he continued, “Your methods are unorthodox, Knight Farris. And reckless, and potentially dangerous. But despite that, they work, and more than that, they inspire people. What I’m trying to say, Knight, is ... I owe you an apology.”

“First of all, Danse, don’t call me Knight, we’re off duty. And second,” Christopher tossed back his shot and grinned wearily. “What you owe me, Danse, is another drink.”


	8. Diplomatic Affairs

Christopher and Danse arrived at Maxson’s command deck at 0800, just moments before the briefing was to begin. Lancer-Captain Kells and the three proctors were already waiting there; Proctor Quinlan had a small pile of assorted equipment near his feet - a small radio, and a few of what looked like modified laser rifles. Maxson, meanwhile waited by the window, looking out over the Commonwealth with his hands clasped behind him. 

“Come in,” Maxson said without turning around. Danse and Christopher both snapped to attention and saluted. Maxon now turned away from the window. “At ease. Paladin Danse. Knight Farris. I’m sure you’ve seen the activity at the fort to the south?”

Christopher shot a sideways look to Danse, who answered, “I haven’t been formally briefed on it, Elder, but I’ve heard the patrols make mention of it.”

“Consider this your formal briefing, then,” Maxson said. “It belongs to a local militia known as the Minutemen. We’ve been monitoring them for the last few months, but until now, they haven’t shown particular technological prowess above the average wastelander.”

“What’s changed?” Christopher asked. 

“They’re advancing,” Proctor Quinlan said, reaching for the equipment at his feet. He pulled up a crude-looking laser rifle, reinforced with wooden pieces and with a metal crank on the side. “A patrol picked this up outside Quincy. It’s rudimentary and inefficient, but could be lethal in the right hands... and with some necessary upgrades.” He coughed once, and continued, “When they retook the fort, they apparently gained access to some radio equipment that our patrols had deemed too weather-damaged to be worth salvaging. It’s been broadcasting across the Commonwealth for weeks now. But most important is... well, take a look for yourself.”

Quinlan gestured towards the window, and Danse and Christopher joined Maxson, who handed Christopher a pair of binoculars. Christopher focused in on the fort in question. It looked pretty much as rundown as Proctor Quinlan had indicated - crumbling walls, ivy and vines choking nearly every structure, including the radio tower, and there was a massive mirelurk queen rotting in the shallows outside the fort’s walls, being torn apart by other mirelurks and radfish. But the fort also had new additions to it.The ramparts had a few freshly built artillery cannons - they had to have been new, the fort looked ancient compared to the cannons - and in the fort’s courtyard was an unusually advanced piece of equipment. 

“What is that?” Christopher wondered aloud. 

“A molecular relay,” Proctor Quinlan said. “Well, unless you mean the mirelurk queen.” Christopher and Maxson both gave him an exasperated look, and he continued, “Frankly, it’s far beyond anything that they seem capable of.”

“What does it do?” 

“Teleportation,” Quinlan said. “Theoretically unlimited range, depending on the power source they have hooked up to it. By the looks of it, they only have a steam engine hooked up to it. But what matters most is the potential it has. We cannot allow it to remain in civilian hands.”

“Thank you, Proctor Quinlan,” Maxson said. “Unfortunately, we must. There is no way we could mount an aerial or ground assault to recover the relay, with those artillery cannons pointed at us. Even relocating the Prydwen could prove devastating for infrastructure at the airport ground base.”

“So what is our mission, Elder?” Christopher asked. 

Maxson’s face turned hard. “What do you know of the Institute, Knight?”

Christopher racked his brain. There was something about the Institute that sounded so familiar. He had heard it before, in Piper’s newspapers, but there was something else there that he couldn’t quite remember. He chose his words carefully, and answered, “Before I enlisted, Elder, the second time, I became acquainted with a civilian newspaper. The writer and editor seemed convinced that the Institute was a ... nefarious organization, out to get the people of the Commonwealth and replace them with android replicas. But I don’t personally believe it’s anything more than a boogeyman, Elder.”

“It is no boogeyman, Knight,” Maxson said. “We first encountered these synthetic replicas in the Capital Wasteland, not long before you left. Lyons kept it a secret, only letting the proctors in on it. Fool that he was, he thought that the synths were harmless. They were just like us, he said. He really believed that robots could be like people. Little did he know the true threat of the synths.

"After the Lyons died and I was named Elder, I was alerted to the true nature of the synth threat. The proctors seemed as unconcerned as Lyons was, and it was soon apparent that they would not be capable of dealing with it. The new proctors and I, however, soon found out who was sending the synths to infiltrate the population of the Capital Wasteland: an organization of spies and snakes, calling themselves the Railroad. We interrogated their members, tracing their routes until we found the source of the synths, here in the Commonwealth. They call themselves the Institute. Unfortunately, the trail ends here. Try as we might, we have not been able to further locate the Institute. It was not until we suffered a synth attack outside our Cambridge patrol base that we were able to determine how they get around. They use a molecular relay, far more advanced than the one in the fort down there. We’re not sure how they transmit coordinate information - we’ve scanned all radio frequencies, but nothing of the sort has turned up.”

“Have you considered that that fort belongs to the Institute?” Christopher asked. 

“It crossed my mind,” Elder Maxson said, “but the technology is too primitive for even the Railroad. And your job, Paladin Danse and Knight Farris, is to go down there and arrange for the Brotherhood to use their relay. We don’t know what they plan to do with it, but assure them that it will be in safe hands.”

“And if they refuse?”

Elder Maxson gave Christopher a grim look. “They won’t.”

***

The vertibird touched down just outside of the fort. Using one of the Prydwen’s radio broadcasters, Quinlan and the scribes hijacked the radio signal that the fort’s broadcast tower was currently broadcasting. Though the minutemen’s equipment was clearly military grade, they had no idea the extent of the capabilities of what they had. After a short back and forth, Lancer Jamison had secured a place outside the fort to land the vertibird, which the radio operator on the other end indicated with a signal flare. Christopher might have expected a military escort - at the very least, a few armed militia members to bring them inside the walls. But aside from a few askance looks from the two soldiers keeping watch on the walls - likely wastelanders who had never seen a suit of power armor or a vertibird before - their entry was markedly calm. 

Danse approached the radio tower in the center of the fort. It groaned with every miniscule shift, teetering and pulling on the lines that held it upright. On the ground next to it was a small shack open to the air, where the radio operator sat with a terminal, constantly chatting into a headset. A short ways from the tower was a short, dark-haired man in coveralls, crouching near a sputtering engine hooked up the molecular relay. Nearby, a super mutant in a tattered labcoat fussed with the relay. “Which one of you is the commanding officer at this outpost?” 

The shorter man looked up at Danse, shading his eyes. “Shoot, ‘spose that’s me, long as General Finch ain’t around.” He stood up and wiped a greasy hand on his equally greasy coveralls before offering it to Paladin Danse. “The name’s Sturges.”

The answer seemed to throw Danse off-kilter. “Do you have a rank ... soldier?” 

“Well, I ain’t never enlisted in the Minutemen,” Sturges said. “But I have been deputized,” he added, flicking a plastic golden star pinned to his coveralls. “What can I do you for?” 

“That’s quite a piece of machinery you have there,” Danse said, indicating the molecular relay. “How did you come to build it?” 

For the first time since they had arrived, Sturges’s friendly demeanor dropped. “Who wants to know?” he asked, looking up at the two soldiers. 

“The Brotherhood of Steel,” Danse said. “We have a vested interest in the technology of the area.”

“We want to make sure it’s being put to good use,” Christopher interjected. “If this can do what we think it can, then we don’t want it in the wrong hands.”

“Well, shore ‘nuff,” Sturges said. “That’s the problem, ain’t it. Few months ago, some small towns under the flag of the minutemen started to have surprise attacks. By these strange creatures - like people, but not, with advanced technology we ain’t never seen. We’d never seen ‘em come in or out, and no amount of defenses could stop ‘em. It was like they were just in the middle of town all of a sudden.‘Til one night, Preston - that’s Lieutenant Garvey, mind you - saw ‘em appear in the streets in this flash of blue light. Well, Preston’s a real smart fella, so soon as they’d been downed, he and General Finch headed into downtown Boston to figure it out. Well, one thing led to another, and that’s how we met Doctor Virgil here.” The super mutant, Doctor Virgil, gave a sheepish wave before going back to his work. Christopher returned it instinctively, Danse did not. 

“And this has been going on directly underneath the nose of the Brotherhood?” Danse asked. 

“What my superior means,” Christopher corrected, “is that it seems implausible that a bunch of wastelanders could scrounge up this kind of technology from tin cans and Giddyup Buttercups.”

“First of all, I object to that,” Sturges said. “Wastelander ingenuity is second to none, and we don’t need no fancy power armor to prove it. And second of all, well, wastelander ingenuity also has its limits.”

“If I may interject,” the super mutant said. In addition to his ragged labcoat, Doctor Virgil wore a pair of glasses that wrapped unnaturally around his large head. His voice was not nearly as growly as some super mutants, and he was rather well-spoken. In many ways, he reminded Christopher of Fawkes. “Our problem here is twofold. One, we don’t have enough power here to run the molecular relay properly. We’d need a whole fleet of these generators to power it for even a second. Our other problem is that even if we could power it for long enough, we cannot track the signal the Institute uses to transmit relay data. It’s masked with the classical music station that the Institute broadcasts, but the Institute re-encrypts all of its data every day. Without an active cypher, it’s nearly impossible to crack the code.”

“Then we can help you in both parts,” Danse said, cooly. “One, I am certain that I can requisition a nuclear generator for use in the molecular relay. And two, we have this.” Danse opened one massive gloved palm. Inside was a small chip, no larger than a cap, thankfully scrubbed clean of any gray matter. 

“Is that,” Virgil asked, leaning in as he trailed off, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. 

“Affirmative,” Danse said, closing his hand suddenly. “Brotherhood recon patrols ambushed and easily subdued one of the Institute’s courser assassins outside Cambridge. The body was dissected and an active radio receiver and transmitter was found inside the synths’ brain. It may be what you’re looking for.”

“It is indeed,” Doctor Virgil said. “What do you want in exchange? Perhaps we could strike a deal.”

“If we agree to help you complete this project,” Christopher said, “The Brotherhood requires only complete and unrestricted use of the relay. Furthermore, you must agree to never use it to attack the Brotherhood, or we will have no choice but to declare immediate war on the Minutemen.”

Sturges and Virgil looked at each other. “Well, if that’s all,” Sturges said, before extending a greasy hand in agreement.

***

A fortnight later, the molecular relay was nearing completion. The fort - what had been known pre-war as Fort Independence, but what the Minutemen insisted on calling the Castle - was now swarming with Brotherhood personnel, an arrangement neither side seemed to particularly like. The Minutemen were unhappy about being crowded out by the Brotherhood scribes and soldiers who had secured the location, and none of the scribes were particularly pleased about having to work with Doctor Virgil. But, it had been a direct order from the Elder to secure the relay and get it functioning, and that was not to be ignored. 

Christopher and Danse waited by the relay while Doctor Virgil and Proctor Quinlan worked to configure their biological information into the relay. For this to work correctly, a lot of factors had to go correctly. First, Virgil and Quinlan had to do a lot of science stuff that Christopher only pretended to understand. Then, when they initiated the relay, the airwaves had to be clear of any data being transmitted - something the Institute could control, but they could not. And once inside the Institute, there were any number of things that could go wrong. Nobody had ever seen the inside of the Institute and survived. 

Christopher nervously smoothed his courser’s jacket. It wasn’t the first one that they had taken off a courser - that was the one that Danse was wearing - but a second one, claimed by Christopher, Danse, and a recon squad while the relay was being completed. Christopher sincerely hoped that nobody could see the stitching on the hole through the front and back of the coat, where he had ran the courser through. 

“Everything alright, Knight?” Danse’s voice snapped Christopher back to reality. 

“Affirmative, Danse,” Christopher said. “Just nervous. This is uncharted territory.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Danse said. “If anything goes wrong, we can call for a remote relay from anywhere in the Institute.”

“And what if my pip-boy breaks again?” Christopher asked. “This thing was old when I got it twenty years ago.”

Danse clapped a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “Proctor Ingram is one of the best repairmen in the Commonwealth. And if it does break, then we’ll figure something out, Knight. And we’ll do it together. There’s not a soldier in the Brotherhood I’d trust to have my back in there then you.”

“I feel the same as you, Paladin,” although Christopher couldn’t be sure that Danse did. 

“Paladin? Knight? We’re ready for you,” Proctor Quinlan called across the crowded courtyard of the Castle, and instantly, the entire place fell silent. The only noise was the whir of the nuclear generator, the hum of the molecular relay warming up, and the crunch of the late January frost underneath Christopher’s boots. 

Danse and Christopher stepped onto the relay platform. As Quinlan began to count down, Danse gave Christopher a wry smile. “I’ll see you on the other side, Christopher,” he said, and everything disappeared in a blinding blue flash. 


End file.
